


I Won't Be the Same

by maydei



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Human, Andro!Sam, Bisexual Jess, Car Accidents, Consensual Underage Sex, F/F, F/M, Homophobia, John hunts ghosts, M/M, Minor Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Misunderstandings, Nostalgia, On the Run, Panic Attacks, Sam-Centric, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, Unexpected Side Pairing, Unsafe Sex, Young Lucifer, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:37:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2327294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydei/pseuds/maydei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1999: Sam Winchester runs away from home at the age of sixteen. On a bus to anywhere, he meets Lucifer, and the two weave cross-country together in a brief but passionate affair.</p><p>2014: Sam is successful, engaged, and unhappy. He makes one last-ditch attempt to find Lucifer again. He’s got no last name and no address. All he does have is an old picture and the memories of every place they went together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was a ride to write from start to finish. Blood, sweat, and tears, my friends. [As well as a playlist enough to make you cry.](http://8tracks.com/lucmorningstar/i-won-t-be-the-same)
> 
> Tons and tons of thanks to my beta, [Amayakumiko](http://amayakumiko.tumblr.com), who encouraged me to get this thing done, and to [Cami](http://garrisonbabe.tumblr.com) for laughing at me while I cried over this fic. 
> 
> And thanks in advance to my artists, [MusingsofAshley](http://musingsofashley.tumblr.com) and [Destielobessed](http://destielobessed.tumblr.com), whose time zones and sleep schedules are waiting to catch up, and whose art will be added as soon as possible to the fic.
> 
> Here is MusingsofAshley's [art post](http://musingsofashley.tumblr.com/post/98446088322/artwork-for-i-wont-be-the-same-by-maydei) for your reblogging pleasure.
> 
> And Destielobessed's awesome banner! [Reblog here.](http://destielobessed.tumblr.com/post/98477959795/this-is-my-artwork-for-maydeis-big-bang-fanfic) It will be posted at the beginning of the third chapter!

His cap was pulled so far down over his eyes that he stumbled up the steps onto the bus. Sam flushed as he shoved his ticket at the driver and made his way through to the middle section, slipping into an unoccupied row and settling in near the window. He was in for the long haul, he knew, and set his overstuffed backpack in the seat beside him to discourage anyone thinking of keeping him company.

Sam had been trained to disappear his whole life. The first step of vanishing was to draw as little attention as possible.

He was newly-sixteen and more lonely than he'd ever been in his life.

Stuffed underneath two tightly-rolled pairs of jeans, three pairs of underwear, and two changes of socks, Sam dug out his Walkman and clunky earphones, knocked the side against his palm a couple of time, and pressed _power._

May 4th, 1999. His birthday had been two days ago. Three days ago, Dad and Dean had packed up to drive out to Columbine, since Dad was convinced it was a ghost possession that drove that kid to shoot up his classmates. They wouldn't be back for at least a week. Sure, Dean called him every night, but he wouldn't worry too much about a few missed calls (Dad would be running him into the ground, and Dean would figure Sam was just out doing normal kid stuff).

Sam rubbed at the center of his chest, willing away the crush of guilt. He probably shouldn't think about Dean right now.

He'd call Dean in a few weeks, probably, from a payphone somewhere along the road. If and when Dean and Dad caught up, Sam could be three states over. Plus, a week was more than long enough to cover his tracks enough so they couldn't catch a scent. No one would remember the kid with the shaggy hair wearing the cap, ripped jeans strategically held together with safety pins, wearing a tee-shirt too broad across the shoulders and too short compared to his torso. Everyone looked like Sam, these days. And he sincerely doubted that Dad even had a picture of him from the last five years.

It was a clean break. He'd left the clunky brick of a portable phone in the dingy apartment kitchen, holding down a note that simply said, _Throw out whatever you don't want to drag around—but I guess you'll have more room, now, anyway._ It stung to say it, and knew it would sting even more for them to read it, but Sam was tired of being dragged from place to place like an ankle weight. If he was going to go somewhere, he was going to go where _he_ wanted, _when_ he wanted.

Sam rubbed at his tired, stinging eyes. He hadn't slept since they'd left, since he'd decided to cram some extra clothes, some snacks, and all the “emergency” cash he could hustle off drunk assholes at the bar into his bag—since he’d put on four shirts, a sweatshirt, and Dad's jacket; it was easier than carrying them, and saved him a ton of space. Since he'd walked to the bus station at eleven at night, filled with guilt, but never the desire to turn back. He'd bought a ticket to anywhere (but mostly just Phoenix, at first, and he'd think of the rest later), gotten on the bus, and now...

Now, here he was, holding onto the Swiss Army Knife in the pocket of Dad's jacket like a lifeline, praying John wouldn't somehow _know_ Sam was about to fuck up again and have him made before Sam crossed the state line.

People filtered slowly onto the bus, but Sam paid them no attention.

In retrospect, maybe he should have.

 

* * *

 

 

He was dozing, not entirely asleep, but lulled by the roar of the engine and the whir of tires on the road. Sure, the bus wasn't nearly as elegant as the sound of the Impala, but being a passenger to somewhere was the only thing that could ever help Sam feel _still._

And then someone dropped into the seat beside him.

Sam just about knifed the guy before he realized that _he was on a bus_ and the guy staring at him couldn't have been much older than he was. Bright blue eyes stared at him with interest, latched onto the presence of the knife in Sam's hand. He adjusted Sam's backpack from where he'd moved it on his lap when he sat down.

“Hey,” he said.

Sam stared at the guy incredulously, fighting the urge to rip that cocky smirk off his face (he always had to fight the same rage when Dean looked at him like that, like Sam was someone to be pat on the head and told to run along home). Sam reached out and snatched his bag away from the guy, holding it close to his chest.

“Well, if you're gonna be like that,” the guy said reasonably, leaning back into the chair with a smirk. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave Sam a once-over. “Don't suppose I could get your name?”

Sam flushed and pulled his cap further over his eyes, clutching his bag tightly as he looked out the window. “Buzz off.”

“Well, I'm Lucifer,” the guy said, kicking his feet up to rest his knees against the seat in front of him. The lady in the seat peered over the back to give him an irritated glance. Lucifer waited until she'd turned back around to flip her the bird, eyes rolling hard enough that Dad would've given the kid a smack for his attitude. Sam felt a strange pulse of anxiety, despite the fact that he knew they wouldn't get in trouble when there was no one to supervise them.

But—“Lucifer?” Sam asked, peeking at the guy.

“Ye–p,” he agreed, popping the 'p' with a smug grin. “If you don't tell me your name, I'm gonna have to call you something else, you know.”

Man, this guy was a dick. Sam flared his nostrils and hunkered down into his seat. “Look, just leave me alone.”

“I'm pretty sure running away is more than a one-man job.” Sam's head snapped up, and he spun his cap around on his head, careless of the knots it would leave in his hair. Before he could figure out whether to protest, the guy shrugged idly. “I know the look.”

Sam scowled. “What _look?_ ”

“Like you want to cry and punch someone in the face at the same time.” Lucifer reached over, heedless of Sam's tension, to adjust one wild strand of his bangs. Sam slapped his hand away. The guy snorted. “Hey, whatever,” he said. “I only know the look because I've been there. I'm still there. I just figured you might want to talk.”

“Well, I don't,” Sam snapped.

Lucifer held his hands up in surrender. “Fine. But if you change your mind, my seat's back there. I've got the row to myself, and you're more than welcome. And I don't extend that offer lightly.” He gestured to the empty rear seats of the bus before he got up. “Just think about it, Sam.”

Sam tensed. “How do you know my name?”

Lucifer smiled, probably supposed to be mysterious, but he mostly looked smug as all hell. “Come on back and I'll tell you.”

“Yeah, right,” Sam scoffed.

Lucifer shrugged, wiggling his fingers in a childish wave before he returned to the back. Sam poked his head up to watch as Lucifer swung himself down the aisle, each arm balanced on the backs of people's seats, drawing glares and irritated protests. Lucifer didn't seem to care. He settled into the furthest-back corner of the bus—and then looked up to give Sam another cocky wave.

Sam whipped around, sinking into his chair.

Screw that guy.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam lasted an hour. Now that he knew the guy's voice, he could hear Lucifer humming, the sound carrying even over the noise from the engine. It was infuriating. Finally, after a restless nap-that-wasn't, Sam snatched up his bag and stormed back through the aisle, sitting in Lucifer's row (careful to leave the seat between them empty—even though Lucifer had lifted his bag to offer Sam the spot. He quirked an eyebrow and put it back down when Sam sat heavily two chairs away. Sam held onto his bag all the same).

“Will you please shut up?” Sam hissed. “All I hear is your humming and it's terrible.”

“Humming, me?” Lucifer asked, stretching his arms back behind the headrest. “Tell me, Sam, do I look like the kind of guy that hums?”

“No, but you look like the kind of guy that goes out of his way to piss people off,” Sam grumbled in return. His hands clenched around the straps of his bag.

“Fine, no humming from me,” Lucifer agreed. “Whatever you want, Sammy.”

“ _Don’t,_ ” Sam snapped, blood draining from his face and migrating to his stomach; it curdled there, heavy and rotten, and filled him with sour feelings. All the happy memories of that nickname felt hollow now, made bitter by the fact that Sam might never hear it from Dean’s mouth ever again.

Lucifer watched him, his face absent of his infuriating smirk, head tilted as he observed Sam. “You're angry.”

“Of course I'm angry,” Sam whispered furiously, surreptitiously glancing up to make sure no one overheard him. “I ran away so I could get out of being _trapped_ , and now you're trying to force me into a corner.”

“I want to figure you out,” Lucifer corrected.

Sam all but exploded at that. “Why?! I'm a kid on a bus. I'm not that interesting.”

Lucifer sat forward at that, a spark in his gaze as if Sam had insulted him. “You're interesting to me _because_ you're a kid on a bus. You're like me.”

Sam sneered. “You don't even know me.”

There was a moment of silent tension where Lucifer stared at him, looked at him in that curious way that Dean had sometimes, like he was trying to figure something out. But Lucifer, he— _was that even his real name? It couldn't be_ —he stared at Sam like it was the most important thing in the world, to figure out his secrets. It was as flattering as it was unsettling.

“I could,” Lucifer said, and it sounded like an offer. He leaned toward Sam, expression surprisingly earnest. “ _We_ could. You know, travel. Together. Look out for each other.”

Sam's brow furrowed. “You want to be my friend?”

Something flickered across Lucifer's face, but it smoothed over as soon as it appeared. “Yeah. I mean, what's the downside?”

Sam's nostrils flared slightly, but he had to admit the idea was... interesting. Appealing, even. He had to admit, the last thing he wanted was to be completely alone. But he’d be damned if he let Lucifer know that. “You mean, besides being friends with you?”

Lucifer blinked. The corner of Sam's mouth twitched.

Dawning understanding crossed Lucifer's face, along with a flash that Sam recognized as happiness. Real happiness. Even when Lucifer re-schooled his features into a wry smirk, that glint stayed locked in his eyes. He reached out to give Sam's shoulder a light shove; Sam snorted in reply, offering a small smile.

“Cheeky little shit,” Lucifer grumbled through a grin.

Sam's smile inched outward. The tension drained from his shoulders, and he reached over to toss his bag on top of Lucifer's in the seat between them. He turned toward him, pulling his gangly legs close to his chest, and balanced the long, lean line of his body in the seat that was not nearly big enough.

“You never said how you figured out my name,” Sam pointed out.

Lucifer huffed through his nose and reached over, tapping his index finger against the worn fabric of Sam's backpack. Written in faded permanent marker were the crooked letters _S–A–M._

Sam groaned in the hopes it would distract Lucifer from his embarrassed flush, but no dice. Dad had always told Sam not to overlook the obvious. Unfortunately, it seemed Sam had some practice to do.

Until he realized that it didn't even _matter_ if Sam kept up with his training. He wasn't tied to Dad's leash anymore. He was free, now, and he could go anywhere he wanted. He didn't have to keep to himself for the sake of others finding out that Dad was some freaky ghost hunter. He didn't have to move from place to place on Dad's schedule anymore—he could go where he wanted, whenever he wanted to go.

This was freedom, real freedom—but he didn't have to be alone.

Sam offered Lucifer a smile, a _real_ smile.

So what if he didn't know anything about this guy yet? He had time, and now he had a friend.

 

* * *

 

 

Lucifer was simultaneously the most interesting and grating person that Sam had ever met. He asked personal questions and offered almost nothing in return, and he had a way of firing up Sam’s temper with offhand quips that was unmatched by everyone except, well, his father.

But then there were the moments when Lucifer just... stopped. And got quiet. Stared at Sam and rested his head against the bus seat, turned his whole body in Sam’s direction, and _listened_.

No one had ever given Sam their full attention like that. Dad only ever listened like it was the last thing he wanted to be doing, and Dean never really got to listen because Dad made sure he was focused on something else at all times. But to have someone look at Sam, _see_ him, and hear his words, it was... nice.

He realized eight hours into the bus ride that he’d never really had a friend before.

By the time they reached Phoenix, Sam thought that this might’ve been the smartest thing he’d ever done.

 

* * *

 

 

Everything Sam had done with his family felt brand new when he experienced it with Lucifer. From their first shared shitty motel room—to the first time they bribed beers off of an exhausted, pretty bartender by telling her that they wouldn't dream of flirting with a girl so far out of their league—to the first really _good_ hole-in-the-wall diner—to the first time they got their asses kicked after they hustled three hundred dollars off of fantastically awful pool players—from Phoenix to St. Louis to New Orleans to Boulder to Salt Lake City and all the crappy bus stops in between.

They'd mastered the art of angling their heads toward the shitty headphones to get the maximum volume from the Walkman _without_ cracking skulls. Lucifer favored a particularly familiar brand of hard rock, while Sam preferred an eclectic mix of radio singles and classic oldies that Lucifer suffered through for Sam's sake. They spent a quarter of their money on AA batteries, which moved up to a solid half once Lucifer decided they should invest in some handheld gaming system— _it's a GameBoy, Sam, come on_ —that they passed back and forth on the long bus rides.

He loved the freedom in it.

He loved it even better when Lucifer picked up a junk car somewhere in Northern California, a pine-green Mazda Rotary Pickup that had been rusting in a field since barely six months after it was bought in 1977 (the owner in question had found it lacking when it came to moving farm equipment). The guy had apparently given it to Lucifer for fifty bucks, just grateful to get the damn thing off his property without paying for a hauler. Over the course of three days, Lucifer had disappeared at dawn and returned at nightfall, leaving Sam pissed off and alone in their skeevy motel double. The evening of the third day, Sam was playing the Game Boy into the ground, sullenly beating out all of Lucifer's high scores on Super Mario Bros.

And then he heard it.

He winced in sympathy for the owner at the sound alone. The damn thing wheezed and groaned and sputtered, pitiful in a way that Sam hoped he would never find the Impala (he knew Dean would sell his kidney for spare parts before he let her go to junk). After several minutes of the godawful sound, Sam peeked out the window, if only to make sure someone wasn't being murdered in the parking lot, rather than just being a shitty car.

It was parked directly in front of their room, and Lucifer was behind the wheel with a cocky smile.

Sam set down the game without bothering to save and shoved the motel key into his pocket. He stormed outside.

“This?” Sam demanded. “ _This_ is what you've been leaving me alone for?”

Lucifer's smile dimmed. “You don't like it.”

Sam took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling a stab of guilt. Really, he supposed it wasn't that bad. Though the grill and hood were badly rusted, the lights looked fairly new, and the canvas-covered cap suspended over the flatbed looked recently replaced. Through the windshield, Sam could see there was black duct tape sealing up a rip in the faded black-leather bench. The wipers looked workable, at least.

He circled the thing. Lucifer remained in the cab, fingers tapping on the wheel. Of the four round taillights, one was missing its red cap.The tailpipe was chipped. One rim on the rear passenger side was dented on the surface, but the shape remained unchanged, overall.

Sam circled back to the front. The antenna was still present.

With a wail, the engine cut, and Lucifer crawled out of the driver's side. He circled around the front and leaned against the hood, expression wary as he crossed his arms defensively over his chest.

Sam stood in front of him and quirked an eyebrow. “How much did you pay for it?”

Lucifer scowled. “The guy practically paid _me_ to take it from him, Sam.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, and felt his jaw twitch. “What about after you bought and replaced all the parts this thing needed to run?” Sam tapped one tire with the toe of his canvas Docs. Actually, those looked pretty new, too.

“Still less than it would've cost to buy a new car.”

Sam grimaced. “That doesn't tell me much, Luce.”

Lucifer threw his hands up, cheeks flushed ruddy, avoiding eye-contact. “Fine. Okay. Whatever, Sam. We can leave the damn thing in the lot and keep taking the bus, if that's what you really want. I just thought that _maybe_ it would be smarter to not have to shell out our money on tickets and bag-checking every few weeks. But you know what? _Fine._ ” He stormed past and snatched the motel key out of Sam's pocket.

Sam turned on a dime and grabbed Lucifer's wrist. Suddenly, he felt ashamed. The amount of effort Lucifer had put into this was clear to him, and he knew it had to be because of the way Sam had waxed poetic about the Impala and how she'd been the closest thing to a real home he'd ever had.

Lucifer hadn't done this for himself. He'd really wanted to impress Sam, to provide for him.

Sam's face heated up, ashamed of himself and embarrassed and completely flattered. He felt inexplicably shy.

Lucifer paused when Sam ducked his head and stopped trying to wrench away. He waited, patient.

“I like it,” Sam admitted quietly. “Thank you. I like it, I really do. You didn't have to do this for me.”

Lucifer was still tense, but his voice was soft. “You deserve a home, Sam. I know it's not much, and I know I'm not the best mechanic in the world... and I'm not the best friend, either. But you've stuck with me. I want you to be able to go wherever you want to go, not only where a bus can take you.”

“Hey,” Sam said quietly, reeling Lucifer in and stepping into his space. He wrapped his arms around Lucifer's waist and rested his forehead on his shoulder.

Lucifer hesitantly returned Sam's embrace.

Sam couldn't say what compelled him then, but he nosed at Lucifer's throat and up to his jaw and brushed his lips over Lucifer's cheekbone. Lucifer's face was warm under his mouth.

His arms tightened around Sam's shoulders.

“Thank you,” Sam said again, sincerely, and gently pushed his face against Lucifer's cheek in something that was _absolutely not_ nuzzling, and mirrored back the most fulfilling words that had ever been said to him. “Thanks, Luce, I love it.”

Lucifer pet a hand through his hair before he rested his chin atop Sam's head. It probably wouldn't be long before Sam shot up a few more inches and he couldn't manage it, even if the time came that Sam would bend to embrace _him_ (if he ever got to hold Sam again). He held onto the moment while it lasted.

He didn't say that he didn't need a home as long as he had Sam.

 

* * *

 

 

“Dammit, Sam! I worked hard for those high scores!”

“Next time, don't leave me alone with Lifetime TV for three days!”

 

* * *

 

 

“Where should we go?” Sam asked from the passenger side, his whole body tilted toward Lucifer, his cheek pressed to the top of the bench.

“Where do you _want_ to go?” Lucifer asked in return, inclined toward Sam like a plant to the sun. The truck was silent as they sat in the empty lot four days later, their belongings packed into the back. It was night, and the town they occupied was small. The stars above were bright, even if they weren't as bright as they were in Kansas.

“Dunno,” Sam replied. He shifted on the seat. “You tell me. Your car.”

“ _Our_ car,” Lucifer corrected.

The words made Sam feel warm. He couldn't figure out how to reply.

“Fine,” Lucifer said then, tearing his eyes away from Sam and turning on the truck. They backed out of the lot and drove away. When they were in motion, it was almost like the sound of the engine didn't really matter.

Lucifer drove them out to an empty road in god-knows-where, twenty minutes outside of the town. He pulled to a stop at the side of the road. Here, the stars were bright as fireflies.

“Pick one,” Lucifer said, jutting his chin toward the horizon. “You pick one, we'll go that way.”

“There's too many,” Sam complained, but it sounded like wonder.

“Just pick,” Lucifer insisted, clamping his teeth down on the smile that wanted to creep up. “We have all the time in the world to see them all.”

“Okay,” Sam whispered.

The silence between them was warm as Sam scanned the sky. His expression was slack and soft, wide-eyed and all but glowing. As Sam chose a star, Lucifer thought maybe he'd chosen one, also.

Sam pointed upward. “That's the Northern Star, isn't it?”

Lucifer looked. “The Morning Star? Think so.”

Sam's lips moved soundlessly as his eyes moved across the sky. “Then... _that_ one.”

Lucifer's cheeks hurt with the smile that shoved its way out. “Second star to the right,” Lucifer murmured. He tore away down the road and made the first turn that appeared.

Over the course of several hours, he stole glances as Sam drifted to sleep.

Second star to the right, and straight on 'til morning.

The Sturgeon Moon hung high above them.

 

* * *

 

 

“Take exit nine.”

“The guy at the station said we should take eleven.”

“I know where we are, now, Lucifer. We should take nine. Get into the right lane.”

“Sam, he said _eleven_.”

“And I say _nine_ , you ass. Are you gonna listen to me or not?”

“We should stick to the directions.”

“Lucifer, we're not heading anywhere. Just go where I tell you!”

“Until you drive, Sam, we go where _I_ want.”

“I _can_ drive, you just won't let me!”

“You don't have your license!”

“Lucifer, I said get into the right lane!”

“I said no!”

“Luce!”

“Sam!”

“JUST TAKE EXIT NINE!”

“HOLY FUCK, FINE!”

 _SCREECH_.

_HONK._

Silence.

“Any more bright ideas, Sam?”

“Shut up. I think I'm gonna be sick.”

 

* * *

 

 

September was chilly, but not quite _cold._ It was this distinction that allowed Sam and Lucifer to save money by piling into the bed of the truck, surrounded by thrift shop blankets and bundled shirts as pillows and the scent of laundromat detergent.

Sam's legs were curled close to his body, both to save space and to save heat. He still shivered.

“Are you cold?” Lucifer asked through the dark.

“Nah,” Sam said through chattering teeth. Never let it be said that Sam was anything more than a bundle of skin and bones, himself.

It was dark, and they were parked just off the main road, somewhere in the vast Nevada desert. Hot in the days as it may be, the cold permeated the dry air at night in a way it hadn't anywhere else in the warm September.

“You're an awful liar,” Lucifer huffed.

Sam scoffed; the sound was muffled under the three layers of blankets.

Lucifer lifted up the edge of his own makeshift nest. “Come on.”

Sam was cold enough not to question it, but squirmed close to Lucifer's heat, piling his own blankets over the top of them.

Lucifer cursed quietly when Sam tucked his cold toes between Lucifer's shins. Sam, though, was reluctant to get much closer—at least until Lucifer had enough of his shivering and threw an arm around his waist to drag Sam close.

All at once, Sam went very still.

“Is this okay?” Lucifer asked after a tense moment of silence. “You just—you seemed cold.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. He couldn't find the clarity of mind to answer in specifics. He molded himself into Lucifer's side, face pressed against his throat. He all but purred when a hand worked into his hair.

His shirt rode rode up; it was understandable, cuddled up as he was. But then he felt Lucifer's fingers touch at the bare skin of his waist, and he shivered for another reason entirely.

He couldn't say he hadn't thought about this. They'd travelled together for over five months already; they'd dodged speeding tickets, scrounged for meals, lived in close contact in a way Sam had never shared with anyone but family. It was understandable that he would eventually come to feel this way, he figured. Things happened. It didn't mean he had to act upon those feelings.

Even if he wanted to.

But he couldn't forget the stories—the boys found dead, beaten to death for the rumor of a preference. It was a dangerous world, and Sam had only ever wanted a normal life. He had yet to decide whether this was normal enough for him to hold on to.

And then came Lucifer's whispered words, so softly said that Sam knew he could ignore them and not hurt anything between them if he denied it all. “...is _this_ okay?”

Sam's heart made a strangled lurch in his chest. Lucifer had put the ball in his court, but now—

Sam nosed at Lucifer's neck and gave a short, terrified nod. He rubbed his lips against Luce's pulse point, a soft brush back and forth, but one that drew a burst of startled elation from Lucifer's speeding pulse.

Lucifer stroked the back of Sam's neck with his fingers. Sam nuzzled up under the curve of Lucifer's jaw.

They tangled together, finally warm, but far from relaxed. Fear and excitement warred in their hearts, and the outcome didn't seem clear.

There were so many ways this could go wrong.

They fell asleep to early morning sunlight after an eternity of anxious darkness. They didn't speak of it when they woke up.

But when Lucifer got behind the wheel, Sam reached out to tangle their free hands together. Despite the numbness in their tightened fingers, Lucifer drove with one hand on the wheel for almost two hours before he had the heart to pull his hand away.

Even then, their thighs pressed together. They both remained smiling until their cheeks were sore.

 

* * *

 

 

Lucifer smoked.

In terms of habits, Sam figured it probably wasn't the worst. John had smoked casually (and when had _Dad_ become _John?_ ), and even Dean had indulged socially. But he'd never spent time around anyone who smoked anything resembling frequently.

He supposed it wasn't so bad. A pack might last Lucifer a week, allowing that he was in a good mood. Whenever they bickered, Lucifer would smoke more frequently. Sam learned to hate it, but also to love it. The smell was comforting, in a way, despite all the adverts nowadays that said how bad they were for you.

Lucifer found amusement in offering Sam a stick every so often, laughing as Sam turned him away with a roll of his eyes and a hand to his chest to give him a light shove.

Sam didn't smoke. Lucifer did. He was hardly the only one, and leave it to Texas to roll their eyes at the recent legislation barring underage adolescents from buying a pack. Lucifer never had a problem; even stocked up in Odessa, keeping packs in the glove compartment of the truck, under the seats, _in_ the seats when they ran out of room.

It was in Odessa that Lucifer decided he'd had enough of waiting for Sam to catch up.

Sam cautioned him against it, but Lucifer kissed him on a corner street, tasting like ashes and coffee.

They fought their way through the local football team later that afternoon.

By nightfall, they had crossed the border, nursing bleeding knuckles and split lips, and then laying in the truck bed in rural Oklahoma to trade shaky, lazy kisses and gentle touches.

Lucifer tasted like cigarettes, and Sam couldn't find it within himself to mind.

 

* * *

 

 

They traveled with no set destination in mind, but the winds carried them to New York, where Sam hustled bars all over town until he he could afford two tickets to _RENT._ Lucifer bitched about it until he got inside and saw the theatre itself, and then went slack-jawed and bright-eyed with awe. Sam cried like a baby during the scene with Angel's funeral. Lucifer leaned over to drop a kiss to his temple, careless of who saw.

Two rows down sat two well-dressed boys; Sam caught the eye of the shorter one, who offered a shy smile and a nod, and who clutched at the hand of his companion. Sam nodded back. They would never see each other again, but it was nice to know that they weren't alone. Lucifer never picked up on it. That was okay.

That night, they bought the soundtrack, then hung around just long enough to have the cast sign it. Sam all but shone with pride when Fredi Walker patted him on the head and told him that the acting world sucked, but Sam seemed bright and eager and he would light up the doorway of any Ivy League he set his mind to, and that playing a lawyer almost made her wonder if she could've made it. She winked and told Sam that if he ever managed it, to send her a thank you note when he made partner in a firm.

Sam beamed. Not for the first time, Lucifer proceeded to become sullen.

As they drove through the night in the direction of Santa Fe, he smoked an entire pack and declined to sing along to _Take Me or Leave Me._

 

* * *

 

 

They found a small music festival in Santa Fe, choked with the smell of tobacco and marijuana and incense, occupied mainly by women in long skirts and leather headbands and men wearing too-short shorts or bell-bottoms.

They both found it incredibly lame, but suffered through it anyway. After all, there was an excess of beer and bad acoustic covers to sing along to. For early in October, they couldn't really ask for much more.

Some old lady hippie decided that Sam and Luce had _great energy_ (whatever that meant) and asked to take their picture. She took a few with her Polaroid, insistent that they not pose and remain natural. They picked on each other something awful, made bad jokes, and Lucifer smoked. They just _were._

She handed them a picture later that night, after their voices had gone hoarse and their eyelids drooped. Sam was talking to someone out of sight, and Lucifer was looking off at someone in the distance with his mouth open. It wasn't much, or even particularly good, but in that drunken moment it seemed like the best thing Sam had ever seen. He'd tucked it safely into his wallet.

He wasn't sure if he'd had the thought to thank the woman, but she smiled, and he figured she knew.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam learned things about Lucifer in bits and pieces.

His birthday was in December. He had a weird obsession with pomegranates. He liked to draw. He was competitive as all hell.

His name wasn't really Lucifer. Or, well, it was—but it was more than that.

“They called me _Foster_. I fuckin' hated it.”

“Why?”

Lucifer shrugged, not looking away from the road as he drove. “I was a foster kid.”

“Oh.” Sam didn't know what to say to that. Lucifer continued anyway.

“My foster family was one of the ones that hoarded kids for a stipend. There wasn't enough room for all of us, not even enough for some of us. They sent us to a Catholic school to get some kind of grant from the church, something about lost sheep. The school tried to kick me out when I said my name was Lucifer. They didn't care it was my legal name. They started using my middle name. My brother was the only one that seemed to remember I was someone other than _Nick_.”

Sam had rested his head against the bench, watching. “You've got a brother?”

Lucifer's face closed off. “Yeah,” he said simply. “Michael.”

That was the end of it.

He knew that Lucifer said he'd run away. He wasn't sure if he believed it.

 

* * *

 

 

Their relationship progressed slowly. They fought as much as they made out. It was no secret that Sam was as terrified as he was eager when it came to being able to touch.

They stopped getting doubles at motels. They didn't care what kind of looks they got.

Their nights were spent cuddled together, especially as they moved into November. They kissed tirelessly, roaming hands and awkward legs. They knocked teeth more than once.

The first time Lucifer touched him, Sam had come embarrassingly fast.

They spent the month in motels, staying for days at a time rather than hours. They got to know each other.

Sam got attached. Lucifer no longer seemed so reluctant to be close.

And Sam tested the waters.

They started a routine. Lucifer liked to sleep in, so Sam would slip out to get coffee. When they drove and Sam got tired, rather than slipping into the back, Sam would stretch out across the bench and leave his head in Lucifer's lap. He bought Lucifer a small sketchbook and a set of graphite pencils, and smiled like an idiot whenever he found a folded-up sketch in his belongings, portraits of him while he was sleeping or reading or not paying attention.

Lucifer made gestures, offerings of his own. At the end of the day, he would rub Sam's hands or his shoulders, would wrap himself around Sam's body and just _breathe._ Sometimes his gestures would involve annoyances—stealing all of Sam's shirts, then offering one of his own. And sometimes they were more dramatic, like when he drove them to the top of some nameless mountain and kissed Sam as the sun went down.

He worked tirelessly on something that Sam thought was just another hemp bracelet—but always hid it from view, or worked while Sam napped or drove or was otherwise occupied. On just another random day, he presented it to Sam with tellingly-little fuss—not a bracelet, but a necklace that sat comfortably-snug around Sam's throat. The pattern was one Sam hadn't seen before, and it was studded with small glass beads, clear and blue and green and gold, and threaded with thin strands of leather. He handed it over and watched expectantly (hopefully) as Sam turned it over in his fingers.

His face fell when Sam handed it back, the hurt lingering like it never would have only a few months ago.

Sam cut off his assumptions before they could take root.

“Well,” he said, a bit impatiently, but not unkindly. “Are you going to help me put it on or what?”

Lucifer's hands trembled as he tied it securely. Sam reached back to take one of his hands in his own.

“Thank you,” Sam replied, turning to steal a kiss, his hands rubbing up and down the slight curve of Lucifer's slender waist. He took a deep breath and nudged his lips against Lucifer's cheek. His eyes closed.

His chest squeezed tight.

“I love you,” Sam whispered, much in the same way that Lucifer had started things so long ago, in a breath that could be as easily ignored as acknowledged.

When Sam opened his eyes, Lucifer was staring at him as if he'd never seen him quite right before. Sam swallowed. Lucifer grabbed for him, slid his hands into Sam's hair, licked into Sam's mouth with the same passion and emotion he afforded everything to do with Sam.

He pulled away just the barest bit. “Don't you ever leave me,” Lucifer demanded, likely meaning to sound harsh, but only coming across desperately lonely. “Sam.”

“I won't, Luce,” Sam promised, gripping Lucifer's waist and hoping he'd leave bruises. “I love you. I'm yours.”

Lucifer leaned their foreheads together, exhausted and winded and wrecked. “I love you, Sam. I love you so fucking much.” He tucked Sam's unruly bangs back behind his ears and repeated the movement, stroking over Sam's temples. He stared at Sam in wonder, lips parted slightly and swollen red. “I just—Sam. Damn it, Sam.”

He stole another long series of kisses, these softer, slower, more reverent. His fingers fell lower until they drifted just under the line of Sam's newest declaration. Sam shuddered at the feeling of fingers on his throat. Lucifer's lips followed them down and latched on, sucking a vivid bruise into Sam's tender flesh. Sam's weak moan vibrated against his tongue, and Lucifer answered with one of his own.

“Let's go somewhere,” Sam said breathlessly, gripping at Lucifer's shoulders. His gut fluttered with the strangest sort of joy; bliss so keen it was nearly pain. “Let's go _anywhere_. Somewhere new. Somewhere we can stay.”

Lucifer's breath shuddered out along Sam's skin, humid and hot. “We?”

“We,” Sam answered, pulling Lucifer up to look at him by the grip on his leather jacket. Lucifer was as bewildered as he was hopeful. “We'll go somewhere, settle outside of a city—close enough that we can hustle bars, but far enough that they won't follow us home to jump us. We can get an apartment. We can get jobs. Please, Luce, can't we? Don't you want to?”

Lucifer scooped Sam up in one swoop, tossing Sam over his shoulder before taking the necessary steps toward the bed. He tossed Sam down with a sharp grin and a heated, heavy-lidded gaze, stripping his jacket off before he crawled up the mattress.

Sam's heart just about exploded.

“I'll show you how much I _want to_ ,” Lucifer purred.

Sam moaned his agreement, and didn't say much else for a while after that.

 

* * *

 

 

No matter what they got up to sexually, they hadn't actually _had_ penetrative sex yet. Lucifer always snorted when Sam called it that.

“Fucking, Sam,” he'd said. “It's called fucking.”

But Sam disagreed—with Lucifer, it would be more than that. He was positive.

They went north. They were tired of the midwest, and Lucifer seemed to like the colder climates better. In the last week of November, they picked Detroit. By the first week in December, they'd found a crummy little studio apartment that had just enough space for them to sleep, the most pathetic kitchen Sam had ever seen, and a toilet and shower-stall shoved into an enclave that was barely able to be called a room. The walls were crumbling, the windows were cracked, and the sink made terrifying gurgling noises—but it was theirs, and it came with a singular place to park their truck (which was far from being the crappiest car in the neighborhood, they were proud to say), and it had an address and a key to the front door.

They had a home, and finally one that didn't have wheels.

They didn't have a bed, as such—but they found a few of those egg-crate foam pieces that they stacked and put a fitted sheet over, and the entire structure was big enough for them to sleep on as long as they were cuddled up or pressed back-to-back. There was a laundromat down the street that operated on quarters, so Lucifer got good at rigging vending machines in the upper town (where he wouldn't feel guilty for ripping off money from people who couldn't afford it. Like them). They had a two-burner stove that was more of a hot plate, since the oven compartment wasn't functional. The fridge had exactly one shelf, but was unstable—they got good at stacking the heavy things around the edges, closer to where the support was. The freezer was just big enough that they could fit two pints of ice cream and a bag of frozen grilled chicken.

They got jobs. Lucifer was a few weeks away from being eighteen, so the owner of the tiny neighborhood pharmacy overlooked his age so he could sell cigarettes and lottery tickets behind the front counter. Sam washed dishes in the back room at a hole-in-the-wall diner (and when the dish soap got low enough that the owners picked up new bottles, they never asked where the last eighth of the bottle went. They never asked where the lukewarm fries and yesterday's baked goods went, either).

It wasn't a great life, but they lived well enough. It was more of a home than Sam had ever really had. He was happy. At night, he and Lucifer got to curl together and read or play Mario or whatever the hell they wanted.

It was just... _good._

And that's when Sam decided that he was going to call Dean.

He'd been meaning to for a long time. He'd just never really worked up the nerve. And now that he was settled, he just... it seemed like the right thing to do.

He hoarded quarters for a few weeks, enough to pay for a long-distance call on a payphone, and borrowed the car while Lucifer was at work to drive as far as he could. He made it to Toledo, Ohio—a state away seemed good enough. Sam dug out the quarters and fed them into the machine and held his breath as he dialed the last number he had for Dean's phone.

_Ring._

Maybe it wasn't a good idea.

_Ring._

Oh god, maybe he should've thought this through.

_Ring._

He's not going to pick up.

“Who the hell is this and how did you get this number?” Dean snarled.

Sam just about had a heart attack; his hands fumbled and he dropped the phone, wincing as it made a loud series of clanks as it came to the end of its cord and knocked against the phone booth. He scrambled to pick it back up and held it to his ear, desperately trying to muffle his breathing.

He suddenly had no idea what to say.

And then—

“Sam? Holy shit, Sammy, is that you?”

Sam struggled with words, before he just grit out, “Dean.”

“Shit!” There was a _thud_ , the muffled sound of cursing, then pounding footsteps. Another _slam._ Dean hissed our his words in a whisper. “Sammy, holy fuck. What the hell, man? Where the hell are you? I'm coming to get you right now.” A _pop_ and a _thump_. The roar of an engine.

Oh, fuck.

“Dean—” Sam choked. “Dean, don't.”

“Sam, whatever trouble you're in, I don't give a fuck. I'll thrash it all and then I'm gonna kick your ass, and then we're gonna go home and we can watch lame TV and I'll make you pie and Dad's gonna be so happy to have you back he won't even be mad.”

The thought of John made Sam recoil. “Dean, I said no! I'm not in trouble, I'm fine! I'm happy where I am. So, please...” Sam trailed off.

The roar of the Impala on the other line started to slow. Sam was pretty sure he could hear the crunch of gravel as Dean presumably pulled off to the side of the road. “Sam,” Dean said softly. “Man, please. What the hell happened? I saw that note you left, but I just... I couldn't believe it.”

“You knew I wasn't happy,” Sam replied, leaning against the payphone booth. “I mean, ghost hunting, Dean? Come on. Maybe I could've dealt with it if we had a house, but... the moving? The credit card fraud? I couldn't keep going like that, and someday you won't be able to, either.”

A soft scoff. “Fuck. I can't—” The slam of a hand against something solid, probably the wheel or the dash. “So you left,” he said, angry and matter-of-fact. “You left, and you scared me and dad half to death; hell, I didn't even show him the note—”

“Dean!” Sam snapped, horrified and wide-eyed. “What the hell do you _mean_ you didn't show him?! What did you tell him?”

“That you were probably kidnapped, you dumbass!” Dean roared. “I never thought you'd actually run for it! That note didn't even sound like you! Hell, Dad's in prison now—”

“ _What—”_

“—yeah, jackass, he reported you missing! And he couldn't very well do that while calling himself 'Don Juan', now could he? He's doing five years in a mid-security, but he thinks he can get out within a few months—”

It was a whole new low. Sam felt himself go woozy, astounded and horrified. “Dean,” he breathed. “You can't let him do that.”

“And why the hell not?” Dean snapped.

“If he breaks out, he'll _never_ be able to settle down! No houses, Dean, no loans, no nothing. He'll _always_ be running!”

“And how is that any different?”

“He swore he was gonna stop!”

“Yeah, well he lied!”

Sam rubbed a hand over his face. He felt tears burning at his eyes. “Dean, no. I can't be a part of that. I can't—I can't come back to that. Just leave me where I am. I'm—I'm _happy_ , Dean.” Sam sniffled. “I'm really—I'm h-happy.”

A slow, soft breath. “Sammy, come on. Don't cry.”

Sam wiped at his eyes, but didn't answer. He wouldn't acknowledge his slip. They never talked about emotional shit.

“Fuck,” Dean muttered. “I just—alright. Why don't you tell me a little bit, like; tell me about you. Tell me about what you've been doing. Where did you go when you first left?”

“I'm not gonna tell you where I am, Dean.”

“I know. But, Sam—I miss you, Sammy. No Dad, no baby brother; I don't know what the hell I'm doing with myself. Just let me talk to you, buddy.”

Sam lay his cheek against the cold metal and shivered. A couple hundred miles south of Detroit or not, Ohio was still pretty far north, and it was December. “I. Okay,” he said. “I took a bus, at first. Just got on anything to anywhere, you know? And I... met someone.”

Dean whooped and let out a crow of victory. “Meet a girl, Sammy? Fuckin' knew you'd get there eventually.”

“I, uh.” Sam cleared his throat. “Not... really? Not, um. Not a girl, uh... anyway.”

Dean paused, then choked and coughed the way he had the first time he'd tried to drink some of John's whiskey. “I, um. Okay. Okay! You like what you like, okay. So, um, a guy?” A pause, and Dean was serious. “Please just tell me it's a guy and not some crazy old lady or pedophile or something.”

“He's a guy, _just_ a guy!” Sam protested, his voice launching into a semi-hysterical shriek. “Jesus, Dean.”

“I had to ask!” Dean replied through laughter. “Okay, okay. You met a guy. What's his name? Where's he from?”

“Dean,” Sam said, disapproving and quiet. “You know I can't tell you everything. But his name... uh. It's, um, Nick. And he's not really... from... anywhere?” Sam bumped his head against the booth. “He's on his own, too. I dunno, we just... started talking, kind of. Well, no—he kind of pestered me until _I_ talked to _him_. But he's actually really great! I mean, he's just...”

Dean groaned. “Ugh, Sam, no details, please.”

“ _Ack_ —Dean! I wasn't—” he sighed. “No, really. _Nick_ is really... he's good to me. I mean, he fixed up a truck so we'd have our own wheels, and we've got jobs now, and—”

“Sammy, how _old_ is this guy?” Dean interrupted.

Sam went quiet. “He's, uh, almost eighteen.”

Dean sighed loudly, and Sam could practically _see_ him rub his hand over his face. He could all but hear the disappointment. “Sam, he's—running around with a kid _your_ age, that's _different_ than shacking up with a guy that's _basically_ a legal adult.”

“ _Dean_ , I'm almost seventeen,” Sam protested.

Dean snorted. “ _Sam_ , you're sixteen-and-a-half. You're practically in diapers.”

Sam sneered, furious and vindictive. “Sorry, he's not into diapers, and what he _is_ into is none of your goddamn business, except for the fact that he's into _me._ ”

They fumed in silence for a while. Sam felt cagey, and suddenly all he wanted was to be home. He wanted to talk to Lucifer. He wanted to crawl into bed and cuddle and just be _them._

Screw Dean.

“I love him. He loves me.”

Dean growled. “You're a child! You don't love him, and he damn sure doesn't love you! Guys like him will tell kids like you fuckin' _anything_ they want to hear to get into your pants!”

“Guys like him?” Sam shrieked. “You mean 'guys like _you'_? How many cheerleaders have you fucked, Dean?”

“That's different!” Dean snapped. “Those were _girls_ , Sam! All I had to do was show up in the Impala and they were practically _begging!_ ”

“You fucking _sexist—!_ ” Sam slammed his hand against the window of the box. A passerby outside looked up in surprise, then nervously scurried by. Sam bared his teeth at nothing, his voice more angry than he could remember it being since John. He got quiet. “Maybe they did, Dean. But if that's your rationale for it being okay, I guess you'll have to let _Nick_ off the hook, because I _beg_ him. I beg him _every fucking night._ ”

Sam swallowed hard. His hands shook, and he felt tears sting at his eyes.

“So _fuck you_.”

He slammed the phone back onto the receiver, and before Dean could call back, picked it back up and jammed quarters into the machine, frantically dialing numbers and not breathing until he heard it ringing across the line.

Sam swiped at his eyes, then with shaky fingers touched the choker that rested at his throat. The feeling of the glass beads against his fingers centered him.

“Hello?”

“Luce,” Sam breathed.

Lucifer's bored drawl abruptly became serious and murderous. “Where are you, Sam? What's wrong?”

He sniffled, then scoffed. “I'm fine.” At his disbelieving sound, he added, “No, really, I am. I'm just.” He hiccuped, then cursed. “I called Dean, you know?”

“ _Sam_ ,” Lucifer said, emphatic. “I— _why?_ He's gonna find us—”

“No, shh,” Sam replied softly, wishing he could be with his boyfriend; explain it in person. “I drove somewhere else. I'm sorry I took the car, by the way.”

“Where are you?”

Sam laughed, but without humor. “Uh... Toledo.” Sam heard a thud through the line. He winced in sympathy.

“ _Ohio?_ ”

“Yeah. I used a payphone,” Sam replied. He sighed. “I just... he said some things. I wanted him to know I was happy, and I started trying to tell him without actually _telling him_ , and he just _accused_ you of all this _stuff_ , and he's such a _hypocrite_ , Luce, and—”

“Breathe, Sam. In and out.”

Sam did.

Lucifer made an approving noise, soothing and quiet. “That's good, Sam... that's really good. Damn it, I should be there.”

“You didn't know,” Sam protested. “I'm sorry I called him without asking you first.”

“I'm not angry, Sam. I could never be angry at you, not really. It's okay.” Sam could hear Lucifer's breath whoosh as he sat down. “Brothers exist to make us angry,” he said, annoyed and almost... sad. “They'll never agree with us completely. Especially older brothers. Disagreeing is just part of who they are.”

“It's just not _fair,_ Luce.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know it’s not.”

Sam spent a long moment just breathing over the line, listening to Luce move on the other side. He closed his eyes.

“Sam?” Luce asked.

“Yeah?”

“Come home.”

Sam opened his eyes, holding the cold keys in his palm. There was nowhere else he’d rather be, really. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

“I love you,” Lucifer said, barely a whisper. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam agreed. “I love you, too.”

He hung up.

A hundred miles away, home was waiting.

 

* * *

 

 

Lucifer came home that night with a large clamshell case of french fries, three packets of M&M’s, two bottles of cola, a grocery-store cheesecake, and an anonymous plastic bag. He set it all to the side of their blanket nest and rolled into bed beside Sam with a groan. He slung one arm over Sam’s waist, his face tucking against the back of his neck.

Sam made a soft noise, rousing from his exhausted doze. His fingertips touched the back of Lucifer’s hand, a tentative thing, and smiled when Luce groaned. Sam turned into the circle of his arms and pressed his face up under Luce’s jaw, answering with abstract grumbles and a shaky smile. He protested when Luce mashed a french fry against his mouth with offended screeches and laughter.

Lucifer always had a way of making him laugh.

“You’re a horrible human being,” Sam mumbled through a mouthful of potato.

“You love me,” Lucifer replied, rolling to the side and snagging the plastic bag with his fingertips. He dragged it close and dug out a lump of fabric, then tossed it directly into Sam’s face. “Here. Saw this; thought of you.”

Sam fought the flutter in his chest as he straightened it out with careful hands. He made a soft sound as he took in the sweater—rich blue and off-white, the bottom hem knit with woolen flurries of snowflakes, an expanse of the sky up to the chest, a star stitched bright over the heart, and when he turned it over, an enormous set of wings that spanned the back. It was soft to the touch, bearing a wide neckline that would show his shoulders. Sam wasted no time in sitting up and tearing his tee-shirt over his head and carefully shimmying into the sweater, comfortable and pleased.

He didn’t care that the style of it alone in combination with the length clearly marked it as a girl-sweater. He loved it, and conveyed as much as he leaned forward to drape himself over Lucifer’s chest and stole a kiss, sweet as sugar.

“You’re so good to me,” Sam murmured as he nosed at Lucifer’s cheek. “Dean’s wrong about you, about _us._ And I’m not gonna let anyone else tell me that you don’t love me.”

Lucifer’s hands tightened where they held Sam’s waist, furious and vengeful, and if he _ever_ got his hands on Sam’s brother, he would be sure to make him squirm. “Even if he says it, he’s wrong,” Lucifer hissed, finding Sam’s throat with his lips and leaving a bright, claiming mark. Sam moaned, his head falling back to give him space to work, shivering as Lucifer’s hands dragged down to curl around his hips. “Never believe it, Sam. Never believe that, no matter who says it.”

“Only you,” Sam said breathlessly.

He rolled to the side and Lucifer followed him over, landing with a huff of breath against their bed. Lucifer’s hands rucked up the hem of Sam’s sweater to spread his chilly palms across Sam’s belly. Sam’s heart rate sped up.

“Luce,” he said breathlessly.

Lucifer hummed against his throat.

Sam squirmed, spreading his legs so Lucifer could settle between them. “Can we?”

That got Lucifer’s attention. He released his suction on Sam’s neck with a slurp, dropping one last kiss over the swollen mark just under the line of his choker, before he raised himself up, hands pulled from Sam’s stomach to brace on either side of Sam’s head.

Sam didn’t know what he looked like, but he probably looked flushed and ruffled. Still, he made the most pleading expression he could muster up at Lucifer. His hands wrapped around Lucifer’s hips.

Lucifer leaned down and kissed Sam’s cheek—which was decidedly _not_ the reaction Sam wanted. A cold, bitter feeling settled in his stomach. “Why not?”

“We will, Sam. Soon,” Lucifer promised, kissing just under the curve of Sam’s eye.

Sam sighed, hands falling back on the bed, arms stretched over his head. He frowned, hurt. “Do you not... want me?”

That drew a frown out of Lucifer, who caught Sam’s gaze and lowered himself down so he could give Sam a slow, sweet kiss. “You know I want you,” he murmured against Sam’s mouth. “But I wanna give you more than us just being pissed at your brother. If we’re gonna fuck, it should be about us, huh?” He settled his body over Sam’s, a comfortable sort of weight, and rested their foreheads together.

Sam felt the flush fill his cheeks and he blurted, “I don’t wanna fuck.”

Lucifer paused, a flash of confusion crossing his face. “I thought—?”

Sam turned his head to the side. He swallowed.

Luce touched his face with his fingertips, turning Sam back to face him. His head was tilted at an inquiring angle, waiting for Sam to clarify.

Sam sighed, once. He took a breath. “When we... when we do have sex. I don’t just want it to be fucking. You know?”

Understanding swept Lucifer’s features, and the lines around his eyes seemed to soften. He smiled just a little, an upward tilt of his lips. Not mocking, just... nice.

Sam dragged his hands up Lucifer’s sides, then wove his fingers into Luce’s short hair. Gently, he pulled Luce down for a kiss, soaking in the cool press of Luce’s mouth against his own and the salt on his tongue.

“Fuck,” Luce said quietly against Sam’s lips. “I love you. I just want it to be good for you, Sam. _I_ want to be good for you.”

“You _are_ good for me,” Sam replied, closing his eyes and breathing in. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Luce rubbed his lips over Sam’s cheeks, his nose, nuzzling close like he couldn’t get enough. “You too.” He huffed out a quiet laugh. “You know, I used to be tough. And then you came around.”

“You can be tough and be in love,” Sam said, smiling a little to himself.

Lucifer paused. Sam opened his eyes to see the shrewd expression on his face. Sam tilted his head in question.

“Is that what you are?” Lucifer asked.

Sam blinked.

“In love with me,” Lucifer clarified. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” Sam answered. He pushed himself up on his elbows, and Lucifer drew back to give him room. The two sat hip-to-hip, and Sam threaded the fingers of his right hand through Lucifer’s left. “Never loved anyone before you. Don’t wanna love anyone after you. I want it to be just us.”

Lucifer squeezed Sam’s hand. When Sam looked at him, he was smiling. “Yeah.”

They spent the night drinking pop and feeding each other bits of food, smiling and kissing and being in love because they could. By the time they fell asleep, Sam couldn’t remember why he cared so much about Dean’s opinion in the first place.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam learned about Lucifer’s impending birthday almost entirely by accident. He’d noticed that Lucifer forgot his lunch in their fridge one morning and decided to bring it in for him—Sam had the day off, and he figured he could buy some new batteries for the Gameboy while he was at it. When he’d gotten into the drug store, Luce was apparently nowhere to be found, and his boss was manning the counter.

“Oh, Luke?” The man had asked. “He’s pulling some stock out of the back. That’s mighty nice of you to bring that for him. Kid works too damn hard. Had to argue with him for a week straight just so he’d let me give him his birthday off.”

Sam had frowned as he handed the paper bag over to the man. Birthday? Lucifer had never mentioned...

“He won’t tell me when it is,” Sam admitted a little sheepishly. “And I wanna make sure I get him a nice gift. So, um... when is it?”

The man had laughed, but told Sam anyway.

Which brought Sam to the grocery store, furiously muttering to himself as he picked out birthday candles and a pre-made birthday cake. By the time he got home, Luce’s shift was almost over, and Sam was once again playing through Super Mario Bros. and destroying all of Lucifer’s high scores.

As the door opened, Sam looked up. Lucifer trudged in and shucked off his leather jacket, followed by the green polo his job required him to wear. He shuddered at the chill of the apartment, quickly closing the door behind him and making his way toward Sam to crawl into the warm nest of blankets.

“Thanks for bringing my lunch earlier,” Luce mumbled, adjusting himself so he could lay his head on Sam’s thigh. “I was starving. Hope Anthony didn’t give you too much trouble.”

“Nah, he was nice,” Sam replied, not able to stop himself from playing with the strands of Lucifer’s hair. He bit down on a smile as Luce’s eyes slipped closed. “He told me something funny, though.”

Lucifer’s eyes opened at that. “What?”

Sam saved the game and turned off the Gameboy, setting it to the side. He looked down and frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me that tomorrow’s your birthday?”

Lucifer froze, then grumbled something under his breath. He then sighed, “I didn’t think it was important.”

“Luce,” Sam said softly, gently moving Lucifer’s head to the bed so he could lay down beside him. “You’re gonna be eighteen. That _is_ important.”

“Not really.”

Sam frowned, settling on his side and propping his chin up on his hand. “Well, fine. It’s important to me.”

Lucifer sighed and met Sam’s eyes until he couldn’t; finally, he closed them and pulled the blanket up closer around his chin. “Sorry.”

“So?” Sam asked, ignoring his apology—for now.

“So what?” Lucifer asked.

“ _So,_ ” Sam repeated, a little irritated. “...what are we doing for your birthday tomorrow?”

Lucifer frowned, then opened his eyes to give Sam a look. “Nothing. I don’t know. What we do every day?”

“No way,” Sam argued, thumping Lucifer’s sternum with his free hand. Lucifer let out a surprised (and pained) breath. “We’re doing something. We’re gonna have fun. Christmas is in a few days, so there’s got to be a ton of shit to do. We could see a movie? Or we could go to lunch or dinner or something. Like a date.”

Lucifer pursed his lips. “Sam...”

“Don’t you _Sam_ me,” Sam replied simply. “Tomorrow, you and me. We’re doing _something_ , and if you don’t decide, I will. Okay?” Sam held out his hand, pinkie finger extended. Lucifer stared at it incredulously. “You’re not an adult yet,” Sam said. “So pinkie promises still count. So promise me, okay?”

Lucifer’s nostrils flared, and after a moment he chuffed out a laugh. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, but reached out of his blanket to twine his pinkie with Sam’s. “But, fine. Okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning brought Sam and Lucifer sleeping in until almost ten o’clock, which was a rare treat when they usually had to be up early for work. But they did rise eventually, only for Lucifer to surprise Sam by telling him that he knew exactly how he wanted to start their day out.

“Really?” Sam asked, hardly believing him.

“Really,” Lucifer answered with a smug smile. “It’ll be fun. That’s what you wanted, right?”

Sam hesitated, but Lucifer was right. After they woke in full and brushed their teeth, they spent a good while dressing each other in warm layers of clothing and multiple pairs of socks (at Luce’s insistence). Sam asked as many questions as he could come up with, but Lucifer paid him no mind; he simply made sure Sam’s fingers were tucked into fleece-lined gloves and he was wrapped in his thrift-store winter coat and kissed him on the top of the head and tugged on the end of the ponytail that Sam’s hair was finally long enough to be held back in.

“Hey!” Sam protested and pouted as he readjusted his tiny ponytail. “Don’t do that, asshole.”

“Never heard of pulling pigtails?” Lucifer asked, turning as he walked toward the door to offer Sam a smug smile. “Means I like you.”

“Better like me,” Sam grumbled as he followed, and smiled to himself after Lucifer turned his back. Sam made sure the door was closed and locked behind them before he slid his hand into Lucifer’s, the two headed downstairs toward the truck.

It wasn’t until they were on the road that Sam finally started wheedling.

“Come on,” he whined. “Where are we going?”

“Whose birthday is it?” Lucifer asked, smiling to himself as he tapped his fingers against the wheel. “It’ll be fun. Just trust me.”

“I trust you,” Sam replied. “Just not your taste in fun.”

“We’ve gotten this far, haven’t we? And you’re still with me.”

“You’re the one with the driver’s license,” Sam teased.

Luce grinned. Sam reached over to bat at his thigh until Lucifer offered his hand. Though their breath still condensed in the air between them and they were shivering, the warmth between them was more than enough.

At least, until—

“Ice skating?” Sam asked as Lucifer led them into the rink. His eyes were wide and his face was flushed.

“Yep,” Lucifer said, looking pleased with himself. “Told you it would be fun.”

“But I...” Sam lowered his voice, then his eyes. Lucifer paused expectantly until Sam looked back up and bashfully admitted, “I don’t really know how.”

Lucifer looked surprised at that, and then a little guilty. But before Sam could rush to offer reassurance—that it was John’s fault he’d never been anywhere for long enough during the winter, that there had never been anyone to teach him, that it was considered _horseplay_ and _not useful_ and that’s why Sam didn’t know—Luce’s expression cleared and became set with determination and he said, “Well, I guess I’ll just have to teach you, then.”

That’s how Sam found himself nervously tying his double-socked feet (he’d have to remind himself to thank Lucifer for that later) into the faded-brown rental skates, feeling wobbly before he was even attempting to stand. Lucifer sat at his side, their thighs pressed together from hip to knee, and put his arm around Sam’s shoulders.

“You’ll do fine,” Lucifer assured him soothingly. “You’re tall, you’ve got long legs. You’re graceful, you know? You’ll be a natural.”

“Don’t say that, you’ll jinx it,” Sam mumbled, tucking the long loops under the criss-crossed laces. He let out a breath. “Okay, I think I’m ready to stand.”

Lucifer stood with enviable ease on his skates, moving until he was in front of Sam with his hands out to help him up. Sam fit his gloved hands into Lucifer’s bare palms, then wheezed when Lucifer unexpectedly hauled him upright. He wobbled precariously for a few seconds before he finally found his balance—namely, leaning against Lucifer, who was somehow steady as a rock.

“Come on,” Lucifer said, not even bothering to hide his amusement as he helped Sam stagger toward the ice rink. “One step at a time. You’re doing great, Sam.”

“I’m not even on the ice yet,” Sam protested.

“And you’ll be fine when you get there. Just keep going.”

Lucifer stepped up onto the platform backwards, getting his bearings on the ice in an instant and providing a helping hand to Sam as he tripped up the tiny stair. Sam slipped a little bit, but ultimately stayed standing—Luce grinned like Sam had won some great victory.

“See, I told you!”

Sam went to step forward and promptly fell on his ass.

Lucifer choked on his laughter. “Oh—Sam—you’re not supposed to _walk_ , you’re supposed to skate.”

“Thanks for telling me,” Sam groaned, knowing his ass would probably be bruised by the end of the night. “Really, thanks. Real helpful.”

Lucifer skated backward in one easy, fluid motion that left Sam both awed and slightly envious. “If you wanna get up, you’re gonna want to roll to your hands and knees, then use the toe pick for traction.”

Sam shot Lucifer a face that said just what he thought of _that_ advice, but rolled over anyway. “What’s a toe pick?”

“It’s on the front of your right foot. You’ve got figure skates, so you’ve got one; in figure skating, they’re used for jumps. For beginners, you usually end up using them to stop and to stand. Me, I’ve got hockey skates, but that’s because I’m a more experienced skater. And there’s also the fact that I played hockey.”

“You played hockey?” Sam asked as he attempted to push himself up. He fell back onto his knees with a solid, stinging _thud._ He tried again. “What position?”

“I’m L-wing— _was_ , I guess. Left wingman; offense.” Lucifer skated forward again to offer Sam his hands, his expression still amused, but also somewhat pitying. “Come on; that’s it.”

Sam stood unsteadily, the ice solid beneath his feet, but not constant; he shuffled forward awkwardly and was propelled into a slide by his own movement and by Lucifer’s hands.

Though Sam was nervous and by no means accustomed to the ice, he had to say that he felt better with Lucifer guiding him. The chatter of the families around them seemed to fade out until all he heard was the hush of the metal and ice under his feet. For a moment, he even thought he might understand why people thought this was a beautiful sport.

And then he fell again, but sideways into one of the walls, and clocked his shoulder on the way down.

Sam whined in pain and frustration. “How can you do that so easily?”

“With practice,” Luce said with a slight smile.

“I’m just slowing you down,” Sam said.

Lucifer’s smile dropped at that. “That’s not true, Sam.”

“I am.” Sam rolled onto his belly, then started to get back up. “Why don’t you just, like... go take a lap or something? I’ll be standing by the time you’re back, right? I can hold onto the edge.”

Lucifer looked uncertain, so Sam made a shooing motion.

“Alright,” Lucifer said uncertainly. “Maybe one. And I’ll come back and we’ll try again, okay?”

“You got it. Now, go.”

Lucifer didn’t have to be told twice; he took off at an incredible sprint that spoke of years of practice. He wove in and out of families and small children, a look of unparalleled peace on his face and the flutterings of joy, visible even from far away. Eventually, he simply let himself glide in and out, in and out and around everyone else, his eyes barely open, hands skimming the walls without the desperate cling for balance that Sam himself was maintaining.

Luce looked happy, and Sam didn’t think he’d ever seen Lucifer look quite like that before. It was the same look that Dean got when he was behind the wheel of the Impala on the open road—just... quiet. Blissful. The kind of happiness that didn’t need reaffirming from anyone for any reason. The kind that was a quiet seat at a window when the sun was going down, or the smile just before you sleep when it’s raining.

The kiss Lucifer pressed to the top of his head every morning when he was leaving for his job, and the silent post-work way they wrapped themselves up in each others’ bodies.

And fuck, Sam could deal with a few bruises if it meant he could see Lucifer like this.

Luce circled back at high speed and ground to a halt in a way that Sam would _not_ be trying to imitate anytime soon, thank you very much. His cheeks were tinged with red, dimpled on a smile as he reached out to take Sam’s hands in his own. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll go slow.”

Then, skating backward, he guided Sam onward and away from the barrier walls. Sam didn’t get great, but he did get _passable_ , and he and Lucifer spent the next hour skating hand-in-hand.

 

* * *

 

 

“This sandwich,” Sam mumbled into his bacon-grilled-cheese, “is _awesome._ ”

Lucifer grinned from across the booth, wiping one of Sam’s french fries through the mayo-and-ketchup smeared across his own plate. “What did I tell ya? Growing boys need real food, Sam.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but whether in derision or the pure pleasure of another mouthful of bacon-y, melty goodness, neither could be quite sure. “How did you find this place?” Sam asked, jutting his chin toward the large televisions suspended overhead, playing a variety of sports from basketball to hockey, NCAA to NHL. One TV in the corner played a news station, which droned quietly on in the background.

Lucifer shrugged. “Anthony mentioned it once. Said it was good for a drink and a meal, not too expensive. Good for us.”

Sam smiled at him, letting his foot find Luce’s shin under the table, gently traveling up toward Luce’s knee. They’d had fun today, but they were both getting tired. Sam had suggested going home, but Luce had insisted on dinner first. Now Sam was glad he’d given in to the detour—he liked seeing Luce relaxed and happy, liked seeing him glance up and grin at whatever game was playing over Sam’s head, especially liked the way that Luce had completely ignored the beautiful waitress that had come over to take their orders (even if he felt a pang of sympathy for her when she walked off, clearly dejected at Luce’s bored tone and lack of attention).

If this whole day was a precursor to the rest of their lives, Sam was sure he’d die happy.

Luce kicked his feet up into Sam’s lap with a cheeky smirk, nudging his toe against Sam’s well-covered belly. Sam choked on his sandwich, his cheeks flushed.

“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” Luce said quietly as he leaned forward to swipe another of Sam’s fries.

Emboldened, Sam replied, “Who says I can’t finish you off when we get home?”

Lucifer faltered, the french fry he’d stolen dropping back onto Sam’s plate. He eyed Sam, intrigued and contemplative. “Is that a promise?”

Sam licked his lips; Luce tracked the motion with his eyes. Sam worried his lower lip between his teeth, letting it get nice and pink and fat before he asked, “I dunno, are you gonna let me?”

Lucifer leaned his head back against the booth with a quiet groan. “Let you do fuckin’ anything if I don’t have to walk out of here hard, Sam.”

Pleased, Sam took another bite of his sandwich, smug smirk stuck in place. “I can handle that, maybe,” he teased through his mouth full of food.

Lucifer made a disgusted, amused noise, and went back to his fries.

“Rather handle you, though,” Sam muttered.

Lucifer nearly knocked over his drink.

Sam laughed to himself as he caught Lucifer’s eye and noted the bright glint in it; he was in for it later, and that was fine by him.

“ _And today, in a shocking unanimous ruling by Vermont’s Supreme Court, same-sex unions have been legalized..._ ”

Sam’s head snapped up to look at the TV behind Lucifer; Lucifer frowned, noting Sam’s change in attentions, but not the reason. He turned in his seat to follow Sam’s gaze.

“ _...led by Chief Justice Jeffrey L. Amestoy in a unanimous decision. Vermont is making history today as the first state to legalize equivalent unions to marriage for same-sex couples. This is one of many pro-gay actions that Vermont has taken in the past few years; you may remember the addition of ‘sexual orientation’ to their Human Rights Law in 1992, and the 1993 ruling that allowed one woman’s lesbian partner to legally adopt her child. This is just another in a long line of steps toward Vermont’s pro-gay future. But will other states follow their lead? Reporter Greg Ellis weighs in from South Burlington. Greg, tell us more about Baker v. Vermont..._ ”

Sam felt his heartbeat quicken and stutter. Without thinking about it, he reached across the table and grasped desperately until he found Luce’s hand. Luce squeezed back just as hard as they stared at the screen, shell-shocked, as a well-dressed man talked about the precedents set by Alaska and Hawaii before they were overturned, and the couples that had been denied marriage licenses months before.

Suddenly, Sam was no longer hungry.

Luce must’ve been thinking along the same lines, since he waved the waiter down to ask for the check. His hand trembled in Sam’s, and he met his gaze with an overwhelmed look and a tentative smile.

Sam knew his hands were shaking, too.

“Happy birthday to me, huh?” Luce asked with a breathless, disbelieving laugh.

“Yeah,” Sam answered with a grin. “I can’t—”

“I know.” Lucifer rubbed his free hand over his face, then ducked his chin. He stared at the table for a moment, then said, “In a few years, maybe... we could...?”

“Fuck yes,” Sam replied in a rush, squeezing Luce’s hand until his knuckles turned white. Lucifer looked up hopefully. “When I turn eighteen. You and me, okay? Always.”

Lucifer looked around for the waiter, and when he didn’t see him, stood abruptly. “Fuck this,” he said, pulling Sam up with him. “Come on, let’s go.” He released Sam’s hand for only long enough to throw two twenties on the table—a ridiculous tip, but Luce looked so far from caring that Sam wasn’t gonna mention it.

Luce hauled him out by the tangle of their fingers, their excitement tangible and thick between them, Sam nearly vibrating out of his skin even as they hit the barrier of cold December air. They were halfway around the deserted corner to where they parked their truck when they came across the guy—stumbling drunk, despite the early hour, who took one look at their joined hands and whose face turned ruddy and blotchy in the cold.

“Fuckin’ ffffags,” he slurred.

Sam felt the trembling in his belly slow and become something more reserved. His smile started to fade. Harassment on the street wasn’t something new to him, especially since Texas, but... it always did wear on him.

“Get the fuck out of our way,” Lucifer said, hand tightening around Sam’s. “We’ve got places to go.”

It was almost like the guy inflated then, shoulders back and chest puffed out, swaying on his feet, but nevertheless—a big guy. Bigger than them. A head taller than Lucifer and twice as wide, with meaty hands balled into fists.

“The fuck you say to me?” The guy rumbled.

“Luce,” Sam said quietly. “Come on.”

“Listen to your bitch,” the guy said with a sneer.

And that was it.

Lucifer snarled like a wild thing, his hands free and coiled into fists, and he might’ve been smaller but he was fast and he was sober. He darted forward; the guy took a swing at him, but overextended and slipped on the icy sidewalk, stumbling into the wall. Lucifer knew ice like he knew solid ground, even without the balance of blades; he slid forward on his toes, knees bent, and shoulder-checked the guy into the brick.

The drunk guy wheezed and grabbed for Luce, but Luce was already inside his space. With one hand hauling the guy down by his collar and the other reared back, he snapped his fist forward into the guy’s nose once, twice, three times, into his cheek and his lip until his knuckles were slicked with blood and the drunken dick was barely held up by the grip Lucifer had on his jacket.

And Sam had seen enough.

“Luce!” He shrieked, tripping forward toward him. “Luce, that’s enough!”

But Lucifer was in a fury and could not be stopped.

“Don’t you—ever— _ever—_ ” His teeth were bared, pupils dilated, wild and crazy and barely human. His grip on the guy’s collar went to his throat and squeezed. “ _Ever_ speak to him like that.”

Sam gripped at Lucifer’s sleeve, his good feelings gone, replaced by fear. “Luce.” His voice was soft, barely a voice at all. “Please. Luce.” Lucifer growled, tense; Sam touched his shoulder and gave it a little shake. “Luce, please. Please. I don’t want this.”

“Sam.”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly, encouraging, and gave him another little shake. “Let him go. We gotta go.”

Luce turned his head, finally making eye contact; Sam knew he must’ve looked a fright, because he fucking felt like one. That, more than anything, had Lucifer slowly letting go and stepping back.

The guy was wheezing through his mouth, blood dripping from his badly broken nose into his mouth, spluttering as he slid down the brick to collapse on the ice. He moaned, eye already swelling, lip busted open, hands up to protect his face.

Sam felt sick. He gave Lucifer a harder tug.

“Luce, we gotta go. We gotta.”

Lucifer took a step, then another. He looked at his hand, which was smeared and dripping with blood. “Fuck.”

Sam pulled at him, one hand fisted in the back of Luce’s coat. Obediently, Lucifer followed.

“Gimme the keys,” Sam said. His voice shook.

Lucifer handed them over without a fight.

They all but ran to the car, and Sam’s hands shook as he unlocked the doors, as they scrambled in, as they drove home.

 

* * *

 

 

Undressed to their underwear and shaken, they sat on their makeshift bed; Sam wiped at Lucifer’s bloody hand with a rag and warm water, then bandaged his scuffed knuckles with a long roll of gauze they’d stopped to pick up at a hole-in-the-wall drugstore.

Sam’s hands still trembled.

“You’re afraid,” Luce said, staring blankly at the wall behind Sam.

Sam ducked his head. He nodded.

Lucifer nodded too, an automatic response. He swallowed. “I didn’t—Sam. I’m...”

Sam took in a deep breath, held it, and let it out. “I thought you were gonna kill him.”

“Wanted to,” Luce said. He flexed his fingers, hissed a little. Then he focused his eyes and finally caught Sam’s gaze. “Don’t be afraid of me,” he begged, voice small.

Sam huffed out a pained sound, then tucked the edge of the gauze under the dressings—it would hold for a while, until they needed to clean and change it again.

And then he threw his arms around Lucifer.

Sam’s heart was beating fast; Lucifer’s skin was chilly to the touch. He tucked his face into Luce’s neck, rising up on his knees until he could straddle Luce’s lap. Luce’s cold hands rested tentatively on Sam’s waist.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Sam mumbled, eyes squeezed shut. He felt tears building behind his lids. “What if he dies, Luce? What if they find you? What will I do if they take you away from me?”

Lucifer wrapped his arms around Sam then and held him tight. For a while, he just... breathed. Around them, their apartment buzzed, and outside the cars rushed by. Somewhere upstairs, a tenant was stomping around their apartment. One of their neighbors to the side had a kid that was crying. But the world stopped around them, around this moment. Around the feeling of gauze itching against Sam’s bare back, around the feeling of Sam’s shoulder-length hair caught in the corner of Lucifer’s lips where he’d turned his face to nuzzle the side of Sam’s head.

The world stopped around the moment of fear and love between them, until Lucifer spoke and it started again.

“I love you,” he said.

Sam nosed at Lucifer’s throat and said, “I love you, too.” He kissed Lucifer’s neck, then his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his open mouth, until they turned into each other’s touch and their lips met, careful and soft. They breathed into each others’ mouths, eyes closed tight, foreheads pressed together, and just... kissed. Slick lips, warm tongues, bumping noses. Lucifer’s hands spread wide over Sam’s back and slid down, resting on his ass, but not with urgency. Sam hooked his arms under Lucifer’s, his fingers playing with the hair at the base of Lucifer’s neck.

Sam’s stomach was still heavy with worry, but this... helped.

They rested their foreheads together, and Sam cracked his eyes open. Lucifer looked at him, unwavering, eyes half-lidded and shadowed.

“They can’t take me away from you,” Luce said then. “No matter what they do. They can’t find me, Sam. In a city like this, what are they gonna do? Guys get mugged every day, get the shit beat out of them at bars... we’ll be okay.”

“What if we’re not?” Sam asked quietly. “What if they do, somehow?”

Lucifer sighed and pressed his lips to Sam’s cheek. His nose brushed Sam’s forehead, and Sam’s eyes closed again.

“It’ll never happen,” Luce said. “Like you said earlier, right? You and me, always. As soon as you turn eighteen we’ll go to Vermont and get married, yeah?”

Sam fisted his hands in Lucifer’s short hair. “Yeah,” he agreed. He breathed, and then he realized. “This mean we’re engaged?”

Lucifer laughed once, short and surprised, and pulled back just enough to look Sam in the eye. “Wanna be?”

There’s a spark in Sam’s chest; a little one that fluttered through his system as he nodded.

Lucifer smiled, then touched the beaded choker around Sam’s neck with careful fingers. “Then we are.”

Sam leaned in for a kiss, one that Lucifer reciprocated easily.

“Hell of a day, huh?” Lucifer asked against Sam’s lips, fingers hooked around the braided hemp and leather.

Sam snorted. “Yeah,” he agreed, leaning his head back just enough to bare his throat. “Let’s not have any more like this too soon, okay?”

Lucifer nodded his agreement, fingers tugging the choker around Sam’s throat with just the barest pressure. He pulled it back and forth, turning it from one side of Sam’s neck to the other.

“Not over yet though, is it?” Lucifer asked.

Sam blinked. Lucifer offered a tiny, almost sheepish smile, then let his fingers skim from Sam’s neck down over his collar bones, his sternum, down to Sam’s ticklish belly and the exposed cut of Sam’s hipbone, which he traced with his finger.

Sam’s lips parted. “You want...?”

“If you want,” Lucifer said quietly, the hand on Sam’s ass giving a gentle squeeze that had Sam squeaking out a giggle. Lucifer’s expression turned serious. “But _only_ if you want. If I scared you, Sam, if it’s too much...”

“Everything’s too much, with us,” Sam replied, and chewed on the side of his lip. “But I... I want. With you. But we don’t really have... stuff.”

“We have lube,” Lucifer said with a one-shouldered shrug.

Sam flushed. “I meant, uh, condoms.”

Lucifer licked his lips. “Well, I’m clean. And you’re clean. And unless you’re worried about kids, which I _know_ you don’t have the right junk for...”

Sam socked him in the shoulder, cheeks burning. “It’s not, um. Safe, though. Right?”

Luce leaned in to kiss Sam’s heated skin, then murmured, “I think we’ll survive.”

Sam wiggled back off Lucifer’s lap, seated on his butt on the middle of their bed. Lucifer blinked. “Well, aren’t you gonna, like. Get the lube?” Sam asked, lips pursed, heart beating and belly feeling squirmy.

Lucifer grinned, then crawled off the bed and toward his old duffle, which sat against the wall. Sam eyed his ass, then let out a hysterical giggle. God, this was gonna happen. Of all the times, all the days—but he didn’t even care.

Luce dug through the side pocket until he emerged with the bottle; he sat back on his haunches for a moment as he looked over at Sam.

Sam swallowed, then hooked his thumbs into his boxer-briefs, and shimmied them off. His cock sat half-hard against his thigh.

Lucifer stared, though the sight was hardly new between them. Handjobs, blowjobs, they’d been there before. But this... was new. And awkward, and intimate in the awkwardness.

Sam slingshotted his underwear into Lucifer’s face. “Hurry up,” he said with a nervous laugh.

Lucifer tossed the bottle of lube at Sam, who fumbled in catching it and had to dig through their blankets to find it again. By the time he did, Lucifer was ass-naked and crawling back toward him, sliding up over Sam’s body and stealing a kiss.

Sam hummed into Lucifer’s mouth, reaching under him to cradle Luce’s cock in his hand. Lucifer’s hips jerked in a helpless, aborted little fucking motion; a grunt pushed out of his chest and he crawled forward until Sam was flat on his back. Sam’s legs spread open, knees bent and feet set level against the bed.

Luce hovered over him, one hand braced against the bed, the pad of his other thumb rubbing over Sam’s hole.

Sam moaned, hand falling away from Luce’s cock.

“How do you wanna do this?” Luce asked.

“I think, um,” Sam said, holding the bottle of lube in his hand. “Maybe I should... finger myself? To start. Makes it...” He trailed off into silence.

“Yeah,” Lucifer agreed, and sucked his lower lip in between his teeth. He sat back again, giving Sam room to work, attention rapt.

Sam clicked open the bottle and dumped lube onto his fingers, wincing at the sucking sound the bottle made. He clicked it closed and set it aside, then made eye-contact with Luce—only to flush and turn his face away.

“Hey.”

Sam looked up, fingers slick and frozen still.

Lucifer leaned forward to kiss Sam’s knee, his hand reaching out to settle on Sam’s outer thigh, thumb rubbing in comforting circles. “It’s just me. You don’t need to be shy, okay?”

“It’s just... different,” Sam mumbled, hissing quietly as his cold finger touched his own hole. “Knowing what we’re gonna do.” He took a breath and tried to relax, spreading lube around his rim before he eased his fingertip inside. He wiggled; it was never comfortable starting out, but at least it didn’t hurt. He pushed further, in short, shallow thrusts that was more about slicking himself up than chasing any sort of sensation. “Can you just—?”

Lucifer nodded, reaching for the bottle and snapping it open, pouring more onto Sam’s fingers as he pulled them out, just to push them back in. He moaned under his breath. “Good?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Sam replied, shivering at the odd chill. He pulled at his rim just a little, a tiny grunt of discomfort escaping between his teeth, before he pushed a second finger inside.

“Fuck,” Lucifer said. He reached out, tracing one finger around Sam’s hole. He squeezed his cock in his palm. “Does that hurt?”

Sam stretched his fingers into a V and chuffed out a breath. “Not really. Kinda. Not that much if I do it. Maybe more if you did.”

Lucifer balked at that. “Have I hurt you before?”

“Nah.” Sam winced a little. “Could prolly cut your fingernails, though.” He offered a slightly-sardonic smile. “Shorter the better.”

Lucifer nodded and licked his lips. “Maybe next time you can... show me? So I can make it better.”

Flustered, Sam nodded. Where his own erection had flagged, his cock twitched with interest at the thought.

As though noticing for the first time, Luce’s eyes widened. “Shit, sorry. I should.” He reached out to take hold of Sam’s cock, giving it a few slow pulls and encouraging it back to hardness. “Fuck knows I’m turned on enough; should be helpin’ you.”

“We’re a mess,” Sam said, laughing quietly. “Both of us. We’re just all over the place.”

“S’ok,” Luce replied, and leaned down for a kiss. Sam hummed into his mouth, lazy and pleased, until Lucifer moved down his neck. “First time’s supposed to be kinda weird, right?”

“Guess so.” Sam tilted his head to the side, a moan bubbling up at the feeling of Luce’s tongue on his neck and his hand on Sam’s cock. “Mm.” His fingers curled against his better judgement, then— “Ah, fuck!”

His rim stung, but fuck—that felt good.

“That sounds better,” Luce mumbled into Sam’s skin. The warm line of his cock was snugged up next to Sam’s hand and twitched every so often when Sam’s fingers made a particularly slick sound. Sam licked his lips and quickened his pace, arousal encouraged by the marks Lucifer sucked into his neck.

“Fuck, I want—” Sam panted.

“Mhmmm,” Luce moaned. His hips jerked, pressing his cock up under Sam’s balls and making them both whine.

Sam pushed a third finger in alongside the others and choked out a sigh. Distracted by the pleasure, he rubbed insistently at that awesome little _spot—_ gasping and whimpering as he pushed himself higher.

Lucifer unlatched with a slurp and pushed his cock against Sam’s in a slow grind, thumb rubbing up under Sam’s cockhead. “Gonna come?”

“Wanna.” But Sam forced himself to stop, to pull his fingers apart and stretch at his rim again. “Fuck. Now it hurts a little.”

Lucifer groaned, his forehead falling to rest on Sam’s shoulder. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I just. Sam, I wanna fuck you so bad.”

“Me too,” Sam bit out. “Think I’d stretch this much otherwise? Fuck that.”

Lucifer laughed helplessly, which morphed easily into a moan as Sam’s fingers brushed his cock over and over again. “God, that’s wet.”

“Better be. ‘s what we’re goin’ for.” Sam pushed in far, spreading his fingers as wide as he could, letting out a pained little moan. “Fuck. Okay, that’s enough.”

“Thank fuck.” Lucifer was off Sam in seconds, pouring lube into his palm to slick up his cock as Sam pulled his fingers out. He keened at the sight of Sam’s spread legs and pink hole, nice and slick and shining from the cheap light cast overhead. He settled between Sam’s spread thighs and stroked one with the backs of his damp fingers, steadying his cock with his other hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied. His voice shook.

Lucifer paused. He reached out to hold Sam’s slender hips in his lube-damp hands. “You sure?” He rubbed at Sam’s hipbones with his thumbs. “We can stop, Sam.”

Sam shook his head vigorously, reaching out for Lucifer in the same breath. He leaned up to meet him halfway with a kiss. “Nervous,” Sam breathed against his lips. “Little scared. But I wanna. ‘Kay? I really wanna.”

“Okay,” Lucifer whispered back. “Kinda scared too,” he admitted as an afterthought.

“Yeah?”

Lucifer nodded and kissed Sam’s cheek. “Want to be good. For you.”

“I know,” Sam answered. “Me too.”

Lucifer squeezed Sam’s hips. “Love you.”

“Love you,” Sam agreed. “Kay. C’mon.”

Luce took a breath and sat back, and, one hand on Sam’s hip and one on his cock, slowly started to push in.

The head of Luce’s cock, fuck—was thick and warm and _burned_ as it stretched Sam open all at once. “Slower!” Sam gasped, and tried not to pull away. His hands fisted in the sheets. “Fuck, Luce, sorry. Please go a little slower.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Lucifer said through gritted teeth. “Fuck. Sorry, Sam.”

“It’s okay. Just. Slow.” Sam moaned a little in distress. “Sorry.”

“Shh, okay. Sorry.” Luce held still. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just. Little bit, okay? Little more.”

Lucifer bit down on his lip and obliged, carefully and achingly slow as he pushed another inch. “Okay,” he murmured to himself. “Okay. You okay?”

Sam nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. “Yeah.”

“Hurt?”

Sam nodded again with a closed-mouth moan.

“Should I pull out?”

Sam shook his head. Paused, then nodded. “Yeah. Slow, though.” He opened his eyes. “More lube, I think.”

“Yeah?” Luce asked. He looked worried. “Wanna stop?”

“No,” Sam answered. “Just. More lube, then we try again.”

Pulling out wasn’t as hard as pushing in, but left Sam feeling open and empty in a way he didn’t like. Not that feeling dry and full had felt much better.

“More lube,” Sam insisted. “Like, dripping lube. I think it keeps drying out.”

Luce nodded and fuck, they probably wouldn’t have any lube left by the time they were over, but there was always more to be bought. And Sam really, really wanted this to work.

“What if you, uh,” Luce started. “Were on top? Would that help?”

Sam flushed. “Maybe,” he conceded. “Like, your lap?”

“Mm,” Luce nodded.

“Don’t wanna go too fast, though,” Sam said nervously. “What if I was, like, on my belly? Maybe it would be a better angle or whatever?”

“We can try,” Luce agreed. “Kay, turn. And if it hurts, tell me, okay? And I’ll stop, Sam.”

Sam rolled over, cock limp between his legs. “Mmkay. Try again.”

“Sam, you’re not hard. Like, at all,” Luce said, laying his bandaged palm out across Sam’s lower back.

Sam arched into the comforting touch all the same. “I’ll catch up. Just try.”

Luce made an uncertain sound that turned into a surprised laugh when Sam wiggled his ass. He gave Sam’s ass a gentle swat with his unbandaged hand. “Brat. You sure?”

“Oh my god, just _try_ ,” Sam grumbled.

Lucifer made a sarcastic sound in Sam’s general direction, but was slow and patient as he pushed inside and—wow, that was so much better. A little burn from the stretch, but it didn’t feel like he’d gotten road rash on his insides anymore.

Sam moaned, and Luce stopped.

“No, don’t stop,” Sam whined. “That’s so much better.”

“Yeah?” Luce asked.

Sam pushed back in a slow, calculated motion and keened. “Yeah, definitely.”

Lucifer moaned in return. “Thank fuck.”

“Still go slow,” Sam warned.

“I know, I know.”

But like this, it wasn’t long until Luce was fucked in deep, forehead resting between Sam’s shoulder blades, breath leaving hot spots on Sam’s skin from Luce’s panting. “Can I?” He asked.

Sam clenched down around Luce’s cock and drew a long, pained moan straight out of his lungs.

“Sam, you’re gonna kill me,” he said quietly. “Please. Can I move?”

“Yeah,” Sam breathed. “Careful, but. Yeah.”

One slow, sweet thrust turned into two, into ten, and Sam stopped caring about being careful.

“Faster,” Sam said, reaching under his body to rub at his aching balls.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Luce’s hips snapped against Sam’s ass, cock hot and slick and yeah, it burned a little, but it was nothing Sam couldn’t handle, because Lucifer’s moans against Sam’s back were so damn sweet. Arms wrapped around Sam’s waist, forehead pressed against Sam’s spine; Sam wished he could see Luce’s face, but next time, there was always next time.

“Fuck, Sam,” Luce moaned, hips rolling in tight circles. “You okay?”

“Good,” Sam replied in a rush of breath. “Mm. You?”

“ _So_ good. You’re _so—mmm,_ _Sam_.”

Sam laughed and arched his back, trying to get the angle just right and always just _barely_ missing—not that it mattered when every switch seemed to draw more and more breathless sounds from Lucifer, noises that went straight to Sam’s dick.

“Hang on,” Sam mumbled, and Luce slowed. “Lemme—wanna get up on my knees.”

Luce’s wrapped arms became a steady, supportive grip on Sam’s hips and helped haul him upward, freeing Sam’s dick enough that he could get his hand on it, and _yes—_ changing the angle just enough.

Sam’s head dropped low on a moan, hair long enough to brush the bed below them. “Fuck yeah,” Sam keened, fisting his cock. “There. Just like that.”

Luce fucked into him with steady thrusts, not too deep; brushed against that awesome fucking spot every time that made Sam’s cock drool. “Sam, Sam,” Lucifer babbled, alternating between moans and harsh breaths of his name.

“Yeah,” Sam breathed. “Yeah yeah yeah. Fuck. Fuck me. Oh. Shit, I’m gonna come, Luce.” Sam stripped his dick faster, harder. “Come in me.”

A shout punched out of Lucifer that sounded like a garbled rendition of Sam’s name and his pace stuttered enough that Sam knew he’d come; every new thrust pushed whimpers from Sam’s throat as Lucifer fucked his come in deep and fuck, _fuck—_

Sam barely had the presence of mind to wrap his fist around the head of his dick to keep his come from getting all over their blankets, but he managed it. _Barely._ And that was about all the strength he had before his knees gave out beneath him and he sank down onto the mattress, fucked out and sore and body tingling with bliss.

Lucifer hovered over him, sucking kisses into the sweaty skin of Sam’s back, mumbling unintelligible endearments as he licked the salt from Sam’s spine. His dick was slick and soft and sticky, nestled between Sam’s ass cheeks, his balls hanging heavy and brushing Sam’s hole.

“Fuuuuuck,” Sam moaned into the comforter beneath him.

Lucifer traveled up, his mouth suckling at Sam’s neck from behind, and finally rested his weight atop Sam’s body. Rather than being suffocating, it just made Sam feel... warm. Safe.

“If I fall asleep with your come in my ass, you’re gonna be really sorry when you try to fuck me in the morning,” Sam grumbled, because he loved Lucifer but some things needed to be said.

Luce groaned, and not in a sexy way. He rolled to the side and stretched out, pressed against Sam from calf to shoulder, head pillowed on his arm. Sam turned his face to look at him.

Lucifer was smiling. Beaming, really. Eyes soft, cheeks flushed, lips pink and teeth white and wow, he was so beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

Sam leaned over and kissed him once, twice, a third time.

“Love you,” Sam mumbled.

Luce stretched an arm across Sam’s back and cuddled closer until his nose was against Sam’s cheek. “Clean you up in a few minutes, okay?”

Sam hummed in agreement and let his eyes drift closed.

“I love you too, Sam. So fucking much.”

Sam smiled to himself. “You better,” he mumbled.

Lips pressed against Sam’s temple, and just as Sam drifted off, Lucifer whispered, “I do.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning had Sam slipping out of bed early with the sun, smiling to himself as Lucifer slumbered. His ass was kind of sore, but at least Luce had been true to his word and had cleaned them up before presumably passing out, himself. He was dead to the world if he wasn’t up already, and would probably be out for a few more hours. That was more than enough time for Sam to run out and get breakfast and come back so he could wake up next to Lucifer all over again.

Sam pulled on the sweater Luce had gotten him, smiling to himself as he pulled on a pair of jeans. There was a lightness in Sam’s chest that wanted to bubble up and out, but Sam held it in with a grin.

Coffee, too. And pastries, and maybe breakfast sandwiches. Oh, and juice. He stuffed his wallet into his pocket and shrugged on his coat, kicking his feet into his boots before he snuck out the door.

The coffee shop was only a few blocks away and was nice; quiet. They had homemade stuff and cheap black coffee and that was pretty much all anyone could ask for, let alone two teenage boys with light pockets and empty stomachs.

Sam ducked in to the sound of the bell jingling and the coffee machines humming. He smiled as he got into line, reading over the menu boards and lost in his own world as he waited.

But then.

“What can I get for you today, sir?”

“Coffee, black, please. And I was wondering if you could identify this person; he’s wanted as a suspect in an assault that happened last night. Victim got beaten pretty badly and is in the hospital. We got this composite sketch from his description before he went comatose.”

Sam looked up and paled. Standing at the counter was a man in a suit, showing the pretty barista a sketch that, from this angle, looked a hell of a lot like Lucifer.

“Victim said the guy had a companion, but couldn’t describe him. This is our only lead.”

“Actually, he _does_ look like one of our customers...”

Sam backed a few steps up and _thudded_ into the person behind him. He turned quickly. “I’m so sorry—”

Another suit. One whose eyes narrowed, then widened.

Sam felt his heart stop at about the same second that the guy’s hand closed around his shoulder.

“Victor!”

“Reidy, I’m trying to do my damn job, can’t you just—”

“Hendricksen, shut the hell up. This is the Winchester kid.”

The guy at the counter spun around; a handsome black man with a well-trimmed beard. Regulation everything. And if he wasn’t in a uniform, that meant he was a suit. And if he was a suit, that meant Sam was in big damn trouble.

Sam panicked.

Lightning reflexes kicked in and he stomped on Reidy’s foot and snapped his head back, catching the guy in the jaw as he made a run for the door. He had to get away, he _had_ to.

They caught him by the hair. Of all the fucking things. Sam’s eyes watered as he was yanked back _hard_ , cursing and pulling and then—

“What the _hell—_ ”

The barista at the counter looked shocked. _Hendricksen_ , the ass, was the one with a death grip on Sam’s hair; and his eyes on Sam’s neck.

“Reidy, get your ass off the floor. Come look at these. Do you think...?”

Reidy got up with a grumble, and Sam realized what Hendricksen was looking at—the hickies Luce had left on him last night, huge and purple.

Reidy’s lips pursed. “Looks like.”

Hendricksen shook his head slowly. “Damn, kid.”

And then they hauled him outside.

“Let me go!” Sam yelled. “Fucking—let me go!”

“No can do, Sam,” Hendricksen replied. “Been looking for you for months, now. Family’s worried sick. Honestly, I thought you were dead until your brother Dean gave me a call and said you’d contacted him to call for help.”

Sam’s watery eyes turned to real tears as they dragged him down the sidewalk—toward a big, black SUV.

“No, _please_ ,” Sam begged. “Please don’t. Let me go. I can’t go back.”

“Sam, we’re taking you home,” Hendricksen said. “We’ll get the son of a bitch that took you, okay? I promise you that. I won’t bring you back there, not ever.”

“No!” Sam howled, twisting in Hendricksen’s grip. If he ripped his own fucking hair out, he wouldn’t care, as long as he got away, got _home_ , got to Lucifer—

“Sam, whatever Stockholm you’ve got, it’ll pass. You’re a victim, but you’re a strong kid. You’ll survive.”

Sam screamed, drawing alarmed glances from passerby. “Help me! Let me go!”

“FBI, please step back!” Reidy yelled. “The situation is under control. Move along, people.”

“ _NO!”_ Sam lashed out and thrashed, catching Hendricksen in the stomach, but the man had a grip like a vise. The SUV beeped and unlocked, and Reidy stepped forward to open the door.

“ _LET ME GO!”_ Sam shrieked, an animal scream.

“You’ll thank me,” Hendricksen said, so fucking self-assured, as he pushed Sam in the the back of the car—barred separator between the back and front, no handles on the inside, and Sam was well and truly _fucked—_ and closed the door.

Sam screamed and screamed and clawed at the windows, at the upholstery, panicked and petrified.

Outside the car, Hendricksen and Reidy shared a long look.

“Sexual abuse?” Reidy asked softly.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Hendricksen answered.

“Poor kid.”

Hendricksen shook his head in pity. “Let’s get the kid home. He’ll calm down once he’s with his family. Can’t imagine what the bastard did to him to make him this freaked this fast.”

Special Agents Victor Hendricksen and Calvin Reidy got into their standard-issue vehicle.

The circumstances around the disappearance of Sam Winchester were unclear, but for now, they could consider the case closed.

 

* * *

 

**End of Act I**


	2. Interlude

  
Sam fought the whole way. He cried, he screamed, he carried on, he gouged holes into their seats and tried to kick out the divider. He clawed at the windows until his fingers were bloody.

They didn’t stop. They didn’t listen.

They didn’t _care._

All the way there, they didn’t care, until they pulled up in front of a run-down house where the Impala was parked. And Sam knew.

Dean ran out, and they must’ve called him from the gas station phone, must’ve told him—and, surprisingly enough, John followed him out. He stayed on the porch, but he was there with sharp eyes and his tired face, but Dean was all but pressed to Sam’s door and looked crazed.

“Sam!” Dean shouted. “Sammy!”

Sam screamed, but he didn’t scream back.

Hendricksen and Reidy got out of the car.

“What the fuck is wrong with my brother?!” Sam could head Dean screaming at them.

He didn’t hear their response.

He didn’t know how this was regulation, how they could bring him back and not even ask him any questions, but they _were_ and _fuck that_. They couldn’t make him stay.

They couldn’t make him stay.

_They couldn’t make him stay._

For the first time, Sam stopped screaming.

 _They couldn’t make him stay_.

What were they gonna do, man the doors for the rest of his life? They couldn’t keep him here. They couldn’t do jack shit.

Sam could be home in a couple days, at most. He and Lucifer could pack up and run. Fuck Detroit. They could go anywhere. They had the truck and they’d have each other and that was all they needed.

Sam breathed.

His throat hurt like fuck, felt like it was cracked and bleeding. He swallowed convulsively.

Tentatively, carefully, they opened the door.

Sam could wait them out. He could.

“Sammy?” Dean asked gently, peering in through the crack in the open door. “Sammy, you okay? Did they hurt you?”

Sam swallowed again, and then, “—nah.”

He kept his back to the other door.

“Said you screamed the whole way home, Sam.”

Sam swallowed again. “Yeah.”

“Why?” The door opened more, and fuck, Dean looked exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes, more gaunt in the cheeks than Sam remembered. He wondered what had happened to Dean since he left. Wondered if Dean looked like this _because_ he’d left.

“You _know_ why,” Sam whispered.

Dean wiped at his shadowed eyes with the back of his hand. “Sammy. Will you. Will you come out? Please?”

Slowly, cautiously, Sam did.

Dean threw his arms around him, and it felt wrong. Familiar, but wrong.

Dean’s hug and Dean’s smell didn’t feel like home anymore.

Sam wanted to go home.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam made nice with Hendricksen and Reidy. Smiled apologetically and said that he freaked out, that he was sorry, that he was tired and overwhelmed and just wanted to sleep. That he was _thankful_ to be _free_ , and if they came back tomorrow, he’d tell them all about his _kidnapping_. Because _of course_ the bastard deserved to be caught.

They eyed him warily, but said they’d be in touch in the morning. Sam allowed himself to be walked inside under Dean’s arm, past their father and his (aha, that explained it) ankle monitor that kept him inside on house arrest.

He didn’t speak. He just went up to the room they called _his_ and laid down on the bed.

And waited.

When they opened the door to check on him, his eyes were always closed. He didn’t want to talk. Hell, he didn’t want to _breathe_ until he was home, but he did.

He waited. Hours and hours until he heard John amble off to bed, until after Dean’s quiet _Sammy?_ s faded and the door clicked closed behind him, resigned and defeated.

He waited one more hour beyond that. And then he sprung into action.

Couldn’t go through the hall; John would hear. So Sam opened his window, heavy antique thing that it was, quiet as he could. Screen, but no latches; pushed it out easy enough and stashed it under his bed. He was on the second floor, but he could handle the jump into the snow. Sam slithered out, silent as death, hung from his windowsill and dropped to the ground.

He paused. No noise.

Good.

The snow was far from quiet beneath his feet, but Sam was as careful as he could be as he crept around the house to the Impala. He opened the door gently and closed it behind him.

And then he reached under the dash and tore out the wires, whispered a prayer, and worked the Impala to life.

He had seconds once the engine roared to shift the car into gear and get the hell out of dodge. Behind him, he could already see the lights inside the house flickering on, the front door opening, Dean’s look of horror—

Sam pushed the gas pedal to the floor and tore out of the driveway, the Impala fishtailing as he went.

“Come on, girl,” he whispered. “Bring me home, Baby. Gonna go home.”

He didn’t remember the country roads here, but that didn’t matter. He knew he’d gotten here by coming South, so North it was. He sped out onto the road at forty, hit the acceleration and took the curves at sixty. Straightways were ninety.

But whatever Dean and Dad had done in the Impala, one headlight was busted, and that left Sam’s visibility as absolute crap. Especially when the reality of his situation caught up to him and, damn it, he started fucking crying.

Fuck, Dean would hate him, but he’d understand one day. He’d have to understand one day. He’d get Baby back—Sam would leave her in Detroit, and Hendricksen and Reidy would pick her up the last place they’d seen Sam, nice and simple.

Fuck. _Fuck._

Lucifer had woken up alone.

Sam sobbed.

The road curved.

The wheel jerked.

The car flipped.

Blackness.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sam, _Jesus Christ_ , SAMMY!”

“Kid, keep back!”

“Dean, get away from the damn car! You try to move him now, you could kill him!”

“SAM!”

“This is Special Agent Victor Hendricksen requesting an emergency vehicle to mile marker...”

“ _Sam?”_

Sam’s eyes felt sticky. He blinked; there were flashing lights and a lot of noise. The world seemed hazy.

“ _Sam?”_

He knew that voice.

“ _Sam, please. Fuck. Where the fuck are you?”_

“I’m here,” Sam croaked. “Pl—ease. I’m here.”

“ _Sam.”_

“Luce, please,” Sam begged.

“Hold on, kid. I’m gonna get you out.”

“Please,” Sam whispered.

He didn’t remember much after that.

 

* * *

 

 

_Beep... beep... beep..._

 

Sam opened his eyes.

 _Hospital_ , he knew immediately. His neck felt stiff; maybe braced. His arm was wrapped in a thick layer of bandages; his leg, too.

Broken, probably.

He moaned as the pain hit him.

“Sammy? Shit, you awake?”

Dean. Of course it was Dean.

“Doc? Nurse? Hey, somebody! My brother’s awake!”

Dean shouted into the hall, looking frantic and tired and shit, Sam had crashed the Impala. If he wasn’t all strung up, he’d be surprised Dean hadn’t already killed him.

“Where’s Dad?” Sam rasped.

Dean returned to his side and sat in the horrible hospital chair. “Overnight jail. Broke his house arrest. Feds say they’ll fix it for him since he had a good reason. Shit, Sam, what the hell were you thinking?”

Sam closed his eyes.

“Huh?” Dean insisted, voice thick with hurt. “Thought I saw you fuckin’ kill yourself, Sam. How could you do that?”

“Wasn’t _tryin’_ ,” Sam breathed, “to kill myself.”

“Then what the fuck were you doing?” Dean demanded.

Sam opened his eyes as much as he could; his vision was still pretty blurred. “Was _tryin’_ to go home,” Sam said.

“You are home,” Dean said. “Sam, you _are_ fuckin’ home. With me. With Dad.” Dean reached over and grabbed Sam by the shoulders and shook him. “You fuckin’ idiot. You’re home. _You’re home_.”

Sam touched his neck and swallowed, and.

“Where’s my necklace?” Sam asked, voice small.

“What?” Dean asked, visibly confused.

“My _necklace_ ,” Sam demanded, panic rising again. “Where _is it?_ ”

“Dunno,” Dean said. “Docs prolly cut it off while you were in surgery. Lucky you didn’t _die_ , Sam, _Christ,_ and you’re worried about a fuckin’ string choker—”

“Get out!” Sam shrieked, squeezing his eyes shut, feeling like his throat was squeezing shut, too. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t—couldn’t breathe. “Go!” He wheezed, and took another gasping breath. “Help. I can’t.”

“Shit,” Dean cursed. “HELP! COME ON!” Dean shook Sam again, and again. “Snap out of it, Sam! Jesus, come on! You’re okay!”

“Hey! Let him go, can’t you see he’s hurt?” A nurse stormed in and grabbed Dean by the back of the jacket and pulled him back with surprisingly brute force. “Security! He’s harassing the patient! I need him _out!_ ”

“Fuckin’—!”

“Help,” Sam whispered, feeling faint. The world was swimming.

Sam closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

He woke up somewhere else—stretched across the back seat of a car. He hurt like hell.

Dad was driving. Dean was in the passenger seat.

“What the _hell_ ,” Sam groaned.

“We’re leaving,” John said gruffly.

Sam shot up, despite the pain that caused, and grabbed helplessly at the handle of the car—child locked. Not the Impala. What the hell?

“You can’t,” Sam said tremulously. “I need—Dad. The hospital?”

“Nothin’ I can’t fix myself,” John said. “Got you some pain pills. You’ll heal on the road.”

Horrified, Sam asked, “Your ankle monitor?”

John scoffed. “You think that’d stop me, Sam?”

Sam felt his stomach sink. “Dean?” He asked weakly.

Dean didn’t reply.

“Please,” Sam said quietly. His voice was weak. He felt sick. “Don’t. Dad.”

“That’s enough, Sam,” John snapped. “Dean told me the truth. After your little attack.”

Sam felt tears building in his eyes, and he didn’t want to let them fall, but he couldn’t help but feel betrayed. He didn’t know why—Dean didn’t owe him anything, not after Sam had run away. But he’d _hoped_...

“This family ain’t good enough for you?” John growled. “That’s too damn bad. Gonna keep a closer eye on you. Get back on the road. People need savin’ whether you’re bein’ selfish or not, Sam.”

Selfish.

Sam covered his face with his hands, because he would be damned if he let John see him cry.

“Cry all you want,” John said, dispassionate. “Ain’t gonna help you none.”

He was right. With a broken leg and a broken arm, Sam wasn’t going anywhere any time fast. And outside of the law, the way John was gonna be moving them around again—that was that.

Sam was fucked.

His fingers shook as he reached for his pants, balled up on the floor of the car, and tugged out his wallet. Inside, the picture of him and Lucifer was crumbled and creased, but still there.

The only thing Sam had left.

Sam held it close to his chest and cried.

Neither John nor Dean spoke a word to him all night.

Nor rarely after.

 

* * *

 

**End Interlude**


	3. Act II

2014.

Sam had lost track of the years somewhere along the road; somewhere between the cartons of cigarettes and the first time he’d _jumped_ off Bobby’s roof. Probably after the third time he’d run away, six months after the cops had dragged him home, and he made it all the way to Detroit to find the apartment empty, no sign Lucifer had ever been there. The only signs he’d existed at all were cut into Sam’s body—a scar from wrist to elbow where his arm had been pinned back together, and a gnarled knot beneath his kneecap where his tibia had broken in the crash and pierced through the skin—from when he tried the first time to come home.

He’d kind of broken after that. After Dean held him down in the kitchen and Dad cut his hair with rusty shears until Sam had said _fuck it_ and shaved it all off himself. It grew back; hair always did. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the hair Lucifer had played with and run his fingers though and held while he kissed Sam. So it didn’t matter.

They didn’t get it. They yelled and screamed. Tried to break through to him. Didn’t get that they’d just _broken_ him.

He didn’t have it in him to care. Didn’t even have it in him to try and end it.

He might’ve been high when he _fell_ off Bobby’s roof. Didn’t matter; they all thought he jumped, and that was that. They locked him in Bobby’s basement for a few months after that, where the windows were barred and he could piss and shit but not get out and feel the sun or breathe fresh fucking air.

They tried to help him, they said. Didn’t feel like help.

When he turned eighteen, Bobby opened the door. Patted him on the back and sent him on his way, said that John could suck it and that he couldn’t do this to Sam anymore.

So Sam left. Again.

It hadn’t taken him long to realize how stupid he’d been as a kid. Not for loving Lucifer, but for not covering his own ass.

He’d never even found out Luce’s last name. Never told Luce his. It hasn’t come up, and in their naive rebellion, they thought it hadn’t mattered. But it did. It really, really did.

All he had was the polaroid now, folded in his wallet.

He went west.

He studied hard. Found a job at a campus library, and eventually managed to get into Stanford. God knew how, but they gave him a full ride that Sam took. Education, he figured, and connections. Those were the best way to find Lucifer someday.

Somewhere along the way he met Jess. And she didn’t help him forget, she let him remember. She didn’t mind that Sam chain-smoked. She was happy to have Sam for as long as she could have him. And somewhere along in there, he decided he could stick around.

She wasn’t Luce, but she was pretty good. And she loved him, and he loved her. Not as strong, but. He loved her.

And it worked, kind of.

It’d been fifteen years.

Dean caught up with him after a while. This time, he didn’t have the heart to be surprised or to be pissed that Sam had run. And he knew better than to mention Dad, wherever Dad was.

He said he was happy that Sam had found a real life, a real girl.

Like nothing else had been real before.

Like the taste of ash in Sam’s mouth didn’t keep Lucifer alive and with him.

But finally, finally... things started to change.

Because Jess started wondering when they were gonna get married, and Sam started feeling guilty. So he asked her, and she said yes. Of course she did.

They were gonna get married.

Sam was gonna get married.

And that’s when things started to change one more time.

 

* * *

 

 

Thirty-one years old and conservative. That’s what he looked like from the outside.

A lawyer with his pretty, blonde fiancee. A black tie wedding at the local country club. That’s what was expected of him.

He couldn’t do it. Not yet.

“Why the hell not, Sammy?” Dean demanded through the tinny line of the cell phone pressed to Sam’s cheek.

“I dunno,” Sam said quietly. “I just. Something doesn’t feel right, Dean. I’ve gotta figure it out. I owe it to her.”

“Sam, I swear, don’t leave her just because you’ve got cold feet,” Dean said. “Jess is a nice girl. She loves you, right? You love her?”

Sam hesitated. He always hesitated. “Yeah,” he said. It didn’t feel true.

“Then don’t go running off on her. You stay there. You stay with her. You want wild and crazy, I’ll get you a stripper for your bachelor party, okay? With nipple tassels or something. Just. Stay with Jess.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, but without agreeing.

When Dean hung up, Sam packed his duffel with two pairs of pants, two shirts, extra underwear, and a threadbare blue sweater.

By dawn, there was a note for Jess on the kitchen island that promised he’d be back and that he’d call as Sam drove his conservative car through their conservative town until he hit the highway.

 

* * *

 

 

“What the hell are you doing, Sam? I thought you said you’d stay with her, damn it!”

“Dean, I gotta be sure,” Sam said into the phone. “I gotta know, okay? If I’m gonna do this, I have to know.”

“Know what? Sam, damn it.”

“Look, I’ll call. Just... keep her company or something, okay?”

“Fuck. Fine. But you better be back, Sam.”

“I will be.”

Two weeks later, he still wasn’t back.

 

* * *

 

 

The end started in Detroit. So did Sam.

He had no leads. No real name, no nothing; just the photo that was fifteen years old with faces that no one recognized.

Hell, Sam even drudged up a number for Victor Hendricksen.

“Please,” Sam said. “Victor. I wasn’t kidnapped, I ran away. The guy I was with, I need to find him. He’s only a year older than me. I wasn’t abused, okay—you know my dad was fucked up. You know what happened when you brought me back. Please.”

“Sam, I wish I could help,” Hendricksen said, voice a million miles away. “But it’s not a matter of whether I want to, it’s whether it’s possible. You have no last name to go on. Things have changed since computers came around. A lot of old records were lost. I’m sorry. I am.”

Another lead down, but Sam wouldn’t stop.

 

* * *

 

 

He tried. He tried and tried and tried. Phoenix. New Orleans. New York. Nothing.

He ended up in Santa Fe when things got hard, and found the field where that music festival had been, where the picture had been taken. He got a can of beer from a gas station that set up shop across the road and loitered for the better part of three hours, trying to figure out where to try next.

In reality, he’d already run out of ideas, and it fucking hurt.

It hurt to think that Lucifer could’ve just picked up and left. But maybe Sam was the one who was wrong. It’d been fifteen years.

Maybe he was the stupid one for thinking that Lucifer would still give a flying fuck about some kid he’d fucked when he was eighteen.

Sam chugged the last of his beer at the thought and left the can on the fence post.

Maybe Boulder.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, he went to swipe his card for gas, only to find his pocket empty. And his back pockets. And the center console of the car.

His wallet was gone.

Sam sped back to the field, but no luck. Went to the tiny full-up joint, but they told him they hadn’t seen it. His wallet was as good as gone, better to call the bank so they could cancel his cards—

“I don’t fucking care about the cards!” Sam exploded, frantic. “There was a picture. I fucking. I need it. I need to find it. I have to find it.”

Another look through the field and the fence, but his wallet was gone.

So was the photo.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sam,” Jess said softly. “When are you coming home, baby?”

“I don’t know,” Sam answered, quiet and honest.

“ _Are_ you coming home?”

“...I don’t know.”

“You’re trying to find him, aren’t you? That guy. The one you ran away with.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“Good luck, Sam,” Jess said softly. “Really. I hope you find him.”

“Jess,” he breathed.

“Baby?”

“Yeah?”

“...don’t come home.”

“...okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

Boulder was a bust. So was Cleveland.

But what could he do? He couldn’t stop looking. Now it felt like it was all he was made for.

He started growing his hair out again. And he threw out his button-downs. He picked up worn tees from the thrift store, and when his jeans ripped, he patched them with safety pins.

It started getting cold, but it just reminded him of home. Sometimes he slept in the sweater. It was tight now that he was older, but really, no tighter than Luce’s arms had ever been around him.

He liked to remember that.

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t even know what he was gonna do if he found Lucifer. Say hello? Kiss him? See a ring on his finger and break down?

What would he do once he found him? What then?

What would he do if he never found him?

 

* * *

 

 

“I heard about Jess, man. ...I’m sorry.”

“She deserved better.”

“She deserved _you,_ man. I just don’t understand—”

“Good _bye_ , Dean.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Sam. Are you really still this fucked up about that guy?”

“He wasn’t ever just a guy to me, Dean. He was never just a guy.”

“...he loved you?”

“Back then? Yeah.”

“You loved him?”

“You have to ask?”

“Shit, Sam, I dunno. I never realized... if I’d known...”

“...”

“I’m sorry. That I turned you in. Maybe I should’ve just left you be.”

“Wish you had.”

“...you’ll find him, though. Stubbornest kid I ever knew, Sammy.”

“...thanks, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Sam, this is Bobby Singer. Look... your daddy says you’ve gone nuts, but your brother says you’re lookin’ for someone. Now, I know you and me ain’t spoken in a while... but you’re a good boy. And if I can, I wanna help. You forward that guy’s information to me, and I’ll keep an ear out. I know a lot’a folks. Just, if you want. Let me know. Good luck, kid.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

> Dear Sam,
> 
> Heard from Dean that you’re not making much progress. I’m really sorry about that. I know what I said, and I know our time together is over, but I just wanted you to know that if you ever are back in the West and need a place to stay, my home is always open to you.
> 
> I’m actually writing because... I’m getting married! I know, what a shock. Her name is Ruby; she’s a friend of Brady’s. You remember Brady, right? You must. But, um... it was kind of a surprise. To both of us, I think. But I really love her, and I know she loves me.
> 
> I’m sorry if the news upsets you, Sam. I really hope it doesn’t. And I’d really love for you to be here for the wedding. It’s on December 20th.
> 
> Don’t you dare get us a gift. You being here will be more than enough, okay?
> 
> Love,
> 
> Jess

 

* * *

 

 

Sam showed up for the wedding, because what else could he do? He loved Jess and he was glad she was happy. It was the least he could do for her, despite being sick with longing—today was Luce’s birthday.

But he did bring a gift; a bottle of the wine he knew she loved. He hoped it was small enough she wouldn’t fuss, but enough to show her that he really was happy for her and her... wife. Wow.

The wedding was at a small church tucked on the coastline, and the reception at an art gallery that Ruby curated. It was just the kind of place that Sam could see Jess loving—dark wood floors and open space, some paintings bright and abstract, but some monochromatic and strikingly realistic. He could imagine her here with her hair pinned back in her favorite pair of flats, drinking wine and talking about art with all her friends.

Ruby was beautiful—big eyes with long lashes, beautiful dark hair; it was really no wonder she’d caught Jess’ attention. And she looked at Jess like she’d hung the moon, which, while feeling a little bittersweet, was everything Sam could’ve ever hoped Jess would find for herself.

He sipped champagne (real Champagne, which. Kind of crazy.) and mingled with people he hadn’t seen for years; they stared at him like he’d gone off the deep end. He was far from the man he’d been in college. His hair was pulled back into a short ponytail now, and while he wore a suit, it wasn’t his usual fare of being a thousand-dollar three-piece.

They looked like they pitied him. He heard them whisper _why would Jess invite him; doesn’t that seem mean?_

Eventually, he decided to walk it off and pace the gallery that had become part of Jess’ new life. Some of the paintings were absolutely stunning; some, confusing. But there was one, one that just... captivated him. Oil paint, huge sweeps of blue and white and gold and brown that almost looked like a person, but maybe more like an angel.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Sam startled, and turned to see Ruby, stunning in her white-satin pant suit (expertly tailored, of course) that she’d changed into for the reception. She smiled at him, which was more than Sam had expected; he smiled back and nodded as he turned to observe the painting again.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She asked, inclining her head toward the painting. “I’m lucky enough to know the artist personally. He usually works exclusively with charcoal, but a few months ago he broke into paints; don’t ask me why. But he’s a really, really talented guy. I saw this at his apartment after his personal show in Detroit, and asked if I could feature it here. He kept me waiting for an answer, but I’m really glad he let me.”

“Detroit?” Sam asked, feeling a faint pang.

“Mmhm,” Ruby agreed with a soft smile. “He used to live there, but moved around a bunch. Lives in Vermont now.”

And that was—too much. It couldn’t be.

“Ruby,” Sam asked urgently. “What’s his name?”

Ruby looked taken aback. “Sam, are you okay?”

“Ruby.” Sam swallowed and tried with all his might not to snap the stem of his champagne flute. “His name.”

“Nick Foster,” she answered with a frown.

“Does he go by something else? For his art?”

Ruby’s eyes widened a little at Sam’s urgency. “Yeah, um. Lucifer, he goes by. Why?”

Forget the stem; Sam broke the whole damn glass.

“Where?” Sam asked, shaky and overwhelmed. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his free hand. “Where is he?”

“Sam, sweetie. What’s going on?” And there was Jess, sweet, beautiful Jess.

“I was telling him about my artist friend, the one that painted this, and he just,” Ruby gestured helplessly, and cast a wide-eyed look at her new wife.

Jess gently took the broken glass from Sam’s hand and handed it to a passing waiter. “Sam. What’s wrong?”

“Jess,” Sam said quietly. He stared at the painting and it suddenly made sense. The stretch of blue, like the yarn. The white of the wings. The gold of his skin. The brown of his hair. “I think, um.” His face split on a helpless smile. “I think it’s him. Fuck that, I know. I know it’s him.”

“Oh,” Jess breathed in understanding. Then, she smiled too. “Sam, that’s great. I’m so happy for you.”

“I don’t, um.” Sam took a deep, shuddering breath. “Ruby, where is he? His address?”

“He lives in Burlington,” she answered, still looking confused. “But he’s not. He doesn’t like people, Sam. I knew him as a kid, so that’s different. But I don’t know if he’ll want to meet you.”

“He will,” Jess said, her voice soft and confident.

And when she said it like that, hell, Sam almost believed her.

The plaque beside the painting read _Two Halves Made Whole._

 

* * *

 

 

Burlington was... nice. Narrow streets. A big hill that lead down to the biggest lake Sam had ever seen. It kind of reminded him of San Francisco, in a weird, quaint way. But smaller, much smaller.

It felt safe here in a way that Detroit never had. And there was color here. Flowers. Trees. Posters and graffiti. He could see Luce living here.

But, well, he did.

Ruby had given him the address to Luce’s studio, which was in a big building that overlooked the lake. She said he could be found there most of the time, so that’s where Sam went.

Walking up, he was terrified. At the door, he was barely functioning.

He knocked.

And waited.

But no one answered.

After a number of tries, Sam tried the doorknob, only to find it open. He would just have to be careful, he supposed. Really careful.

The studio was huge, open, airy, and most importantly—empty. Not of things, but definitely of Lucifer.

Easels were set up in front of windows; enormous shelving units housed more kinds of paint than Sam could count. In one corner sat an enormous barrel roll of canvas; on another table, a wooden frame and a staple gun. So Luce made his own canvases.

Off to one side, there was an enormous futon, stretched out in the sleeper position. And Sam... was helpless. He was careful not to touch anything, but once he got to the futon, he could just. Smell Lucifer. And he knew.

Sam stripped off his jacket and kicked off his boots without thought or hesitation, and curled up on the futon. There was a quilt that was soft with age and smelled so much like Luce that Sam felt he could cry. And he might’ve, but he wouldn’t ever admit it.

And he was tired, so tired, and this place smelled like home.

Sam fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

It was dark, but there was a light on. That was the first thing Sam noticed before he even opened his eyes, but—

“Don’t move.”

He didn’t. But immediately, his heart beat about fifty times faster.

“Don’t open your eyes.”

He didn’t.

He waited for someone to shove him or hit him or maybe even shoot him, but the feeling never came. Sam just... waited.

“Okay.”

Sam did, and then wondered if he really had, or if he was dreaming.

Lucifer sat on a wooden stool, a sketch pad balanced on his knee. He was older. Fuck, of course he was older. Sam was older, too.

He had glasses on. Sam was fascinated by them.

Sam was still tucked in, he noticed. He was warm and everything still smelled like Lucifer. His eyes closed and he pressed his face into the blanket, then took a breath.

“You’re not the usual kind of intruder,” Lucifer said simply.

Sam poked his head out of the blanket. “Do you usually get intruders?”

Lucifer scoffed and stood, then turned and walked back toward his tables. “No. Just Ruby.”

“She tell you I was coming?” Sam asked.

Luce shook his head. He didn’t turn around. And that, more than anything, hurt.

“Luce,” he said softly.

“What are you doing here?” Lucifer asked. He still didn’t turn. “I’m guessing you weren’t in the neighborhood.”

“Been looking for you,” Sam said. He felt small.

Lucifer chuffed out a bitter laugh. “Where?”

Sam swallowed and pulled the blanket tighter against his chest. “Everywhere.”

Lucifer finally turned around at that. There was a streak of gray in his hair. But he was still Lucifer and Sam ached to have him closer, to touch. He hurt with how much he missed him, even more keenly now that they were in the same room.

“Why?” Luce asked.

The distance between them stung.

“Because I. I didn’t know what else to do,” Sam replied. He sat up and took the blanket with him.

Lucifer stared.

Sam chewed his lip and inspected the blanket in his hands. Faded; well-used, if not well-loved.

“You still have that?”

Sam pinched the stretched and faded neckline of the sweater Luce had given him what felt like a million years ago. “Yeah.”

“What happened to your arm?”

Sam glanced at the scar that extended from his inner elbow to just below his wrist. “Car wreck.”

Lucifer’s expression looked pinched, and Sam felt obligated to explain as he looked away.

“I tried to come back to you after the feds took me back. Stole my brother’s car, and, uh. Flipped it. Broke my leg, too. And a rib.”

The silence between them was tense.

“That’s what happened, then,” Lucifer said simply. “Feds.”

Sam nodded, not yet ready to look up, to see Luce’s face again. “Went out that morning to get us breakfast. They were at the coffee shop. Picked me up. Wouldn’t listen. Saw the hickies, thought I was molested, ‘cause my idiot brother told them I was kidnapped. Took me home. Then I took the car, woke up in the hospital, and, um. My dad started back up on the run and stuck me in the back seat in the middle of the night. Didn’t make it back to Detroit for six months, ‘til my leg healed. But you were, um. Already gone.”

The futon sank next to him as Luce sat down. Sam swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry,” Luce said.

“Nah,” Sam said with a forced smile, still avoiding Luce’s eyes. “You didn’t know. Couldn’t have known. Must’a thought I left you.”

Lucifer paused for a moment. “I didn’t know what happened,” he finally allowed. “I never knew what happened to you. I kept hoping, but it just... got too quiet. So I left.”

Sam leaned into Lucifer’s shoulder. He was surprised Luce allowed it. But shit, Sam craved him. Craved every touch and smell and glance.

“How did you find me?”

Sam looked up, finally. Lucifer looked almost lost, and he reached out to touch his fingertips to Sam’s jaw. Sam leaned into the touch, starved.

“Dated a girl for a really long time named Jess,” Sam said. “Before I realized I just... I couldn’t. Give her what she deserved. So I left her to start looking for you, and she met Ruby. They got married, I got invited, the reception was in Ruby’s gallery. I saw your painting.”

Lucifer’s lips parted. “ _Two Halves Made Whole_. She begged me for that piece. You saw it?”

“I loved it,” Sam admitted. “I didn’t realize ‘til after she told me about you. What it was.” Sam picked at the hem of his sweater again. “Me, right? It was me.”

And then Luce’s mouth was on his, Sam’s lip sucked into his mouth, all but feeding from Sam. Sam moaned and threaded his fingers into Lucifer’s hair, just long enough on the top to fist his hands in it and fuck, that was nice. Their mouths tasted like ash, but Sam didn’t give a fuck.

“It was always you,” Lucifer replied, and sank his teeth into Sam’s lip.

Sam moaned, clutching to Luce desperately, the churning of his mind saying _please let me stay, please let me stay, please let me stay._

Luce gripped tight at Sam’s sweater, pulling the knitted wings tight across Sam’s shoulder blades. Sam broke away from his kiss with a gasp of breath, panting as he searched Luce’s eyes for _something_ —for being wanted, at least being a little bit interesting.

But Luce closed his eyes as he kept Sam close and touched their foreheads together, just like it used to be.

And they breathed.

Until Lucifer pulled back all at once, leaving Sam confused as he went to the shelving unit, digging though the tubes and bottles of paint in search of something.

“Luce?”

“I found this,” he said by way of explanation. “I missed you. Sometimes I went back where we used to go. Maybe six months ago, I was in Santa Fe for an art show, and I remembered that music festival. I stopped by the site.” He turned, something in his hand as he returned to sit at Sam’s side. “I found this on the ground. And that’s when I decided to paint.”

Dusty and faded, Lucifer pressed Sam’s lost wallet into his palm.

Sam took a deep breath and opened it. Inside was a photo, _their_ photo, creased and loved. _Them_ , together, in 1999.

Sam felt his eyes water and burn. “I looked fucking crazy when I realized I lost it,” he confessed. “Screamed at all the people in the gas station. I must’ve missed you, by, shit, a few hours?”

Lucifer laughed, just once. “And again when I decided not to go to the wedding. I was invited, too.”

Sam lovingly tucked the photo away, not sparing a glance for any of his lost cards or information. None of it mattered, not as much as this moment.

Sam set the wallet aside and took Lucifer’s hand in his own. It was bigger than he remembered, but still fit with his just as well.

“Can I stay?” Sam asked. “Here, with you?”

Lucifer kissed him then, a gentle touch of lips that tasted like smoke.

“I’d like that, Sam,” Lucifer said. “I’d like that a lot.”

 

* * *

 

**End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks. 
> 
>  
> 
> [ Reblog the fic.](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/98444526502/i-wont-be-the-same-slbb14-fanmix-1999-sam)  
> [Reblog MusingofAshley's art.](http://musingsofashley.tumblr.com/post/98446088322/artwork-for-i-wont-be-the-same-by-maydei)  
> [Reblog Destielobessed's art.](http://destielobessed.tumblr.com/post/98477959795/this-is-my-artwork-for-maydeis-big-bang-fanfic)  
> [Reblog the fanmix.](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/84298174782/a-fanmix-for-maydeis-upcoming-sam-lucifer-big)  
> [The Verse, and the making of.](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/tagged/fic%3A-iwbts)  
> [Tell me what you thought.](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/ask)


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